






1 f/JL^ 













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THE 



SKETCH BOOK 



GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITION. 



CHICAGO AND NEW YORK : 

BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 

1884. 



-m.^: 






PRINTED AND BOUND BY 

DONOHUE & HbNNEBERRY, 

CHICAGO. 



EXCHANGE [ 

JUh 12 1944 \ 
Serial Recor:^^' ^^ 
ThiLifefirjf 



TO 

SIB WALTER SCOTT, Bvkt., 

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, IN 

OF THE 

ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 



THE AUTHOR. 



^-^ 5 ,_ x^. ^ . - ■ ^ ? ■ i ii^.,^ ; ■^'-v -^ tii%¥?'jfgiitm'm 



CONTENTS. 



Paok. 

Advertisement to the First American Edition 5 

Adverstisement to the First English Edition . . , . .7 
The Author's Account of Himself . . . . . . .9 

The Voyage 13 

Roscoe , 20 

The Wife .27 

Rip Van Winkle 37 

English Writers on America 55 

Rural Life in England 65 

The Broken Heart 73 

The Art of Book-making 79 

A Ro^al Poet . . . . , 87 

The Country Church . . . . . . . . .102 

The Widow and her Son 108 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 116 

The Mutability of Literature . . . . . . . .128 

Royal Funerals 140 

The Inn Kitchen 152 

The Spectre Bridegroom . . 155 

Westminster Abbey o . . . . 172 

Christmas 184 

The Stage-Coach , . . . . igo 

Christmas Eve 197 

Christmas Day 209 

Christmas Dinner 223 

Little Britain 239 

Stratford -on- A von . 25 r 

Traits of Indian Character 274 

Philip of Pokanoket 289 

John Bull 305 

The Pride of the Village . 317 

The Angler 327 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow .,..•.,. 337 

Postscript .,,,.. 370 

L'Envoy , , , , 372 



™> " 



ADVERTISEMENT 



FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 

The following writings are published on experiment; 
should they please, they may be followed by others. The 
writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He 
is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his 
share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, 
promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. 
Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may elapse 
between the appearance of his numbers ; and their size will 
depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings 
will partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feel-^ 
ings ; sometimes treating of scenes before him, sometimes 
of others purely imaginary, and sometimes wandering back 
with his recollections to his native country. He will not be 
able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to finished 
composition ; and as they must be transmitted across the 
Atlantic for publication; he will have to trust to others to cor- 
rect the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, 
however, with all their imperfections, be well received, he 
cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purest grati- 
fication ; for though he does not aspire to those high honors 
which are the rewards of loftier intellects ; yet it is the dearest 
wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though 
humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his 
countrymen. 

London^ 18x9. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. 

The following desultory papers are part of a series writ- 
ten in this country, but published in America. The author 
is aware of the austerity with which the writings of his 
countrymen have hitherto been treated by British critics ; he 
is conscious, too, that much of the contents of his papers can 
be interesting only in the eyes of American readers. It was 
not his intention, therefore, to have them reprinted in this 
country. He has, however, observed several of them from 
time to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has 
understood, that it was probable they would be republished 
in a collective form. He has been induced, therefore, to re- 
vise and bring them forward himself, that they may at least 
come correctly before the public. Should they be deemed 
of sufficient importance to attract the attention of critics, he 
solicits for them that courtesy and candor which a stranger 
has some right to claim who presents himself at the threshold 
of a hospitable nation. 

February^ 1820. 




THE SKETCH-BOOK 

OF 

GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT 



" I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere 
spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their 
parts ; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a 
common theatre or scene." — Burton. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

I am of this mipd with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a 
stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is 
in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to 
alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where 
he would. — Lyly's Euphues. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into 
foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the 
frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the 
town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range 
of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in 
rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself fa- 
miliar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew 
every spot where a murder or robbery had been committed, 
or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and 
added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their 
habits and customs, and conversing with their savages and 
great men, I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 



I o WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VINC. 

summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my 
eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished 
to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in 
devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of 
the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier 
heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to 
distant climes — with what longing eyes would I gaze after 
their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the 
ends of the earth ! 

Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served 
to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country ; and had I been merely influenced by a love of fine 
scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its 
gratification : for on no country had the charms of nature 
been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like 
oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright aerial 
tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremen- 
dous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes ; her boundless 
plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep 
rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless 
forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence \ her 
skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious 
sunshine : — no, never need an American look beyond his own 
country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poet- 
ical association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of 
art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint 
! peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country 
was full of youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumu- 
lated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of 
times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. 
I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement 
— to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YOAT, GENT. n 

about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to 
escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, 
and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great 
men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in 
America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I 
have mingled among them in my time, and been almost with- 
ered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there is noth- 
ing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, 
particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to 
see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works 
of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in 
America, and man among the number. A great man of Eu- 
rope, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great man 
of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hud- 
son ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the com- 
parative importance and swelling magnitude of many English 
travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little peo- 
ple in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degen- 
erated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- 
tries and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I can- 
not say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, 
but rather with the same sauntering gaze with which humble 
lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print- 
shop to another ; caught sometimes by the delineations of 
beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and some- 
times by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for 
modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home 
their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a 
few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I 
look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my 
idle humor has led me aside from the great object studied by 



J 2 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

every regular traveller who vi^ould make a book. I fear I 
shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape- 
painter, who had travelled on the continent but following the 
bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and 
corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly 
crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; 
but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; 
the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples ; and had HOt a 
single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. 






SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



13 



THE VOYAGE. 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for mercfeandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? 

Old Poem. 

To an American -C^isiting Europe, the long voyage he has 
to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence 
of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind 
peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The 
vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a 
blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of one 
country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. 
From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all 
is vacancy, until you step on the opposite shore, and are 
launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another 
world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on 
the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separa- 
tion. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each re- 
move of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken ; we can 
trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last of them 
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us 



14 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from 
the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a 
doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, 
but real, between us and our homes — a gulf, subject to tem- 
pest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, 
and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the 
horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world 
and its concerns, and had time for meditation, befdre I opened 
another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which 
contained all that was most dear to me in life; what vicissi- 
tudes might occur in it — what changes might take place in 
me before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets 
forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain 
currents of existence ; or when he may return; or whether, it 
may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the ex- 
pression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing 
himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medi- 
tation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the 
air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. 
I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing or climb to the 
main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on 
the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; — to gaze upon the 
piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon ; fancy 
them some fairy realms„ and people them with a creation of 
my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling 
their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and 
awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the 
monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols : shoals of 
porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, 
slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the 
ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue 
waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had 



SKETCH-BCOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT, 15 

heard or read of the watery world beneath me : ot the finny 
herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless mon- 
sters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and 
of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen 
and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How in- 
teresting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the 
great mass of existence ! CWhat a glorious monument of 
human invention ; that has thus triumphed over wind and 
wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communion j 
has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the 
sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has 
diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of culti- 
vated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered 
portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to 
have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by 
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, 
to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was 
no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. 
The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; 
clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? 
Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down 
amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening 
among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the 
waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story 
of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ; 
what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! 
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored 
over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this 



l6 WORKS OF WASHINGTOI^ IRVING. 

rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into 
anxiety — anxiety into dread— and dread into despair ! Alas ! 
not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All 
that shall ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, 
*• and was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, 
when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to 
look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of 
those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the 
serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 
of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 
every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was 
particularly struck with a short one related by the captain : 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine, stout ship, 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs 
that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to 
see far a-head, even in the daytime ; but at night the weather 
was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at 
twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, 
and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The 
wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at 
a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave 
the alarm of ' a sail a-head ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before 
we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, 
with a broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, 
and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just a- 
mid-ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel, 
bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was 
sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- 
naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; they just started 
from their beds to be "swallowed shrieking by the waves. I 
heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast 
that bore it to our ears, swept us out of all farther hearing. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON; GENT. 



17 



I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We 
returned as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the 
smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours 
in the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if we 
might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but all was silent — 
we never saw or heard anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea 
was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, 
sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds over- 
head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quiv- 
ered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding 
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the 
wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the 
mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging 
among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she 
regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
would dip into the water ; her bow was almost buried beneath 
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready 
to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of 
the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging 
sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts ; 
the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored 
in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves 
rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very 
ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the 
yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring 

breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is 

impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather 

and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all 

2 



ig ORKS OF WASHINGTO]^ IRVING. 

her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the 
curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears — how she 
seems to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with 
the reveries of a sea voyage ; for with me it is almost a con- 
tinual reverie— but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" land ! " was given from the mast-head. None but those 
who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious 
throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom 
when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume 
of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, 
teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, 
or on which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all 
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains tower- 
ing into the clouds ! all were objects of intense interest. As 
we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnpitred the shores with a 
telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the 
mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper 
spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor- 
ing hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was 
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with 
people \ some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of 
friends or relations. I could distinguish the merchant to 
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculat- 
ing brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in 
deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated 
cheerings and salutations iiiterchanged between the shore 
and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I 
particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYOJV, GENT. jq 

interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among 
the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the 
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed 
disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call 
her name. — It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all 
the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on 
board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had 
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late 
his illness had so increased that he had taken to his ham- 
mock, and only breathed a wish that .he might see his wife 
before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came 
up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with 
a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 
wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But 
at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features : it 
read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her 
hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in 
silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- 
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of 
men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no 
friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the 
land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the 
land. 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



ROSCOE. 

—In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in 
Liverpool, is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal 
and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious 
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. 
Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled 
with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study 
of newspapers. 

As I w^as once visiting this haunt of the learned, my 
attention was attracted to a person just entering the room. 
He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once 
have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — 
perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of coun- 
tenance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ; and 
though some slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting 
thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with 
the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole 
appearance that indicated a being of a different order from 
the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. 
I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of those m^R 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 21 

whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with 
whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of 
America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know 
European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive 
of them, as of other men, engrossed by trial or sordid pur- 
suits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the 
dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like 
superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their own 
genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici 
mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my 
poetical ideas j but it is from the very circumstances and 
situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe de- 
rives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to 
notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves ; 
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their 
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. 
Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities oi 
art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; 
and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance pro, 
ductions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and 
though some may perish among the stony places of the world, 
and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of earlj 
adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even \\\ 
the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, an(^ 
spread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of vegQ 
tation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in u 
place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talej/r ; 
in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, f^i^iily 
connections, or patronage ; self-prompted, self-sustaine(|^ and 
almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved 
his way to eminence, and having become one of the ornaments 
of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talfmts and 
influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character i ^ich has 



22 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 
particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent 
as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many dis- 
tinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however 
in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures' 
Their private history presents no lesson to the world, or, per- 
haps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency 
At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and com' 
monplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of 
lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive 
enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the 
accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no 
garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth 
into the highways and thoroughfares of life, he has planted 
bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim 
and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the 
laboring man may turn aside from- the dust and heat of the 
day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is 
a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate, 
and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, be- 
cause inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a pic- 
ture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within 
every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised 
by many, or this world would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of 
the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature 
and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the 
coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for their 
culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth ; 
nor the quickening rays of titled patronage ; but on hours 
and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, 
by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in 
hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it 
can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 23 

own Lorenzo De Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed 
his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven 
the history of his life with the history of his native town, and 
has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his 
virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces 
of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found 
the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic ; 
he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the 
gardens of literature. By his own example and constant 
exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and the 
intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of 
his latest writings ;* and has practically proved how beauti- 
fully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each 
other. The noble institutions for literary an-' scientific pur- 
poses, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving 
such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been origin- 
ated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; 
and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and 
magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial 
importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in 
awakening an ambition of mental improvement among its 
inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of 
British literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool, he is spoken of as the banker j and I was told of 
his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity 
him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far 
above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the 
world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of 
adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by 
the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the 
resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his own 
thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neg- 
lect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. 
He is independent of the world around him. He lives with 
* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



24 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

antiquity, and with posterity : with antiquity, in the sweet 
communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, in the 
generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such 
a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited 
by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of 
noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the 
wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
fortune to light on farther traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was rid- 
ing out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, 
when he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented 
grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious 
mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not 
in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the 
situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, 
studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft 
fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was 
seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse 
of green meadow land ; while the Welsh mountains, blending 
with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of 
his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality 
and literary refinement. The house was now silent and de- 
serted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked out 
upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were 
closed — the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored 
beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pic- 
tured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some 
classic fountain that had once welled its pure waters in a 
sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and 
the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which 
had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of 
which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was 
dispersed about the country. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 25 

The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to 
get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on 
shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we 
might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption 
into the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory 
of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 
which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves 
some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over 
the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 
author j or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which 
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black- 
letter bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's 
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 
mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched 
upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circum- 
stance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The 
scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, com- 
panions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the 
season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross 
around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends 
grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid 
civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered 
countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true 
friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of 
Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. 
Roscoe and to themselves, his library would never have been 
sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the 
circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with others 
that might seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to 
me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble 
mind struggling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, 
but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is diffi- 
cult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is 
daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded 



26 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

with Other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, and 
we become too familiar with the common materials which 
form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. 
Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of busi- 
ness ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged like them- 
selves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by 
themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that 
amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which 
gives the name less grace to real excellence, may cause him 
to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know 
that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But 
the man of letters who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the 
residence of Roscoe.*»-The intelligent traveller who visits it, 
inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary land- 
mark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar, — He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering 
alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his 
books, on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding 
article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and 
elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the 
whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from 
the writer's heart : 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers, as he may, affection's dart; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art. 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
When freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



SKETcn-SUOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 27 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house, 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter ! 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for- 
tune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, 
and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the ener- 
gies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation 
to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and ten- 
der female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and 
alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosper- 
ous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the 
comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and 
abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of ad- 
versity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage 
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when 
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it 
with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; 
so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is 
the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier" 
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- 
den calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his 



aS WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVIJSTG- 

nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding 
up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together ?n the strongest affection. " I 
can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than 
to haye a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there 
they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to 
comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married 
man falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situa- 
tion in the world than a single one ; partly, because he is more 
stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but 
chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by do- 
mestic endeawnents, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, 
that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there 
is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the mon- 
arch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self- 
neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his 
heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of 
an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
•which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he de- 
lighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies 
that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her life," 
said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a har- 
monious combination \ he was of a romantic, and somewhat 
serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often 
noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her 
in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the de- 
light ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eyes would still 
turn to him^ as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YOIST, GENT. 29 

When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely 
with his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with 
which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of 
triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doated 
on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a 
couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited 
marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not 
been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden 
disasters it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced 
to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to him- 
self, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a 
breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and 
what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of 
keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could 
not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, 
however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all v/as not well 
with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, 
and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts 
at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and ten- 
der blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she 
only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw 
cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he 
was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, 
and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die 
away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched 
with sorrow — and the happy heart which now beats lightly in 
that bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and 
miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole 
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard 
him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ? " 
At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's 
sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention 
my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to 
madness ! " 



3^ 



WORrS OP WASHINGTON IRVING. 



" And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or 
later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence 
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- 
parted by yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften 
the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of 
the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also 
endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an 
unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon 
perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; 
and true love will not brook reserve : it feels undervalued and 
outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- 
cealed from it." 

" Oh, but my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give • 
to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul 
to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! — 
that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleas- 
ures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and ob- 
scurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the 
sphere in which she might have continued to move in con- 
stant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of 
every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? She has been 
brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she 
bear neglect ? She has been the idol of society. Oh, it will 
break her heart — it will break her heart ! " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; 
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had 
subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
tively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary 
she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to 
the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your 
style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his 
countenance, " don't let that afflict you. T am sure you have 
never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet 



KETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 31 

friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for 
being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require 
a palace to be happy with Mary — " " I could be happy with 
her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down 
with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God 
bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a trans- 
port of grief and tenderness. 

" And believe me, my friend,"" said I, stepping up, and 
grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be 
the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pri'de 
and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies 
and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to 
prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true 
woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant 
in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, 
and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No 
man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what 
a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through 
the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, 
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the ex- 
cited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal 
with ; and following up the impression I had made, I finished 
by persuading him to go home and unburthen his sad heart 
to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the 
fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleas- 
ures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward 
path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and 
might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by 
so many galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is 
a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morn- 
ing, without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it ? " 



32 WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRV mo, 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if 
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor 
girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must un- 
dergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : she 
has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She 
feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of accustomed 
conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to 
experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humilia- 
tions — then will be the real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest 
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world 
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; 
but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; whereas you 
otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It 
is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined 
man — the struggle betv/een a proud mind and an empty purse 
- — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an 
end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm 
poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie 
perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as 
to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered 
fortunes. 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. 
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small 
cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been 
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish- 
ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. 
All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely 
associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the 
little story of their loves ; for some of the svv^eetest mo- 
ments of their courtship were those when he had leaned 
over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of 
her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic 
gallantry in a doating husband. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 33 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings 
had become strongly interested in the progress of his family 
story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 

"And what of her," asked I, "has anything happened 
to her } " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it 
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged 
in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the 
menial concerns of her wretched habitation ? " 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her \ she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort ! " 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself 
poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew 
the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that 
woman." 

" Oh ! but my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is 
her first day of real experience : she has been introduced into 
an humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in ar- 
ranging its miserable equipments — she has for the first time 
known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has for the 
first time looked around her on a home destitute of every- 
thing elegant — almost of everything convenient ; and may 
now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over 
a prospect of future poverty," 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that X 
could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 
3 



34 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so 
thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of 
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet 
it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end 
with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches 
gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers 
tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in 
front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that 
wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we ap- 
proached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my 
arm ; we paused and listened." It was Mary's voice, singing, 
in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which 
her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- 
ward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on 
the gravel-walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the 
window, and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and 
Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty 
rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her 
fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole coun- 
tenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so 
lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are 
come ; I have been watching and watching for you ; and run- 
ning down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a 
table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've 
been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I 
know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent 
cream — and everything is so sweet and still here.-r-Oh ! " — 
said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly 
in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. — He caught her to his bosom 
— he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and 
again- — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; 
and he has often assured me, that though the world has since 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GEN7. 35 

gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a 
happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more 
exquisite felicity. 



[The following Tale was found among the papers of the 
late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, 
who was very curious in the Dutch History of the province 
and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. 
His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among 
books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty 
on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, 
and still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so 
invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened 
upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
farm-house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it 
as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with 
the zeal of a bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the 
province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he 
published some years since. There have been various 
opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell 
the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief 
merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, indeed, was a little 
questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been com- 
pletely established ; and it is now admitted into all historical 
collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly 'after the publication of 
his work, and now, that he is dead and gone, it cannot do 
much harm to his memory, to say, that his time might have 
been much better employed in weightier labors. He, how- 
ever, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it 
did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his 
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he 
felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and fol- 



36 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

lies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," * and 
it begins to be suspected, that he never intended in injure or 
offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by 
critics, it is still held dear among many folk, whose good 
opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit- 
bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on 
their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for 
immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo 
medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 

* Vide the excellent discourse of G. C Verplack, Esq., before the 
New York Historical Society. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 3^ 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — 

Cartwright. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must re- 
member the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered 
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to 
thewestof the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording 
it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, 
every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day pro- 
duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains ; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far 
and near, as perfect barometers- When the weather is fair 
and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print 
their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, 
when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather 
a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last 
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints 
of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer 
landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having 
been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 
times of the province, just about the beginning of the govern- 



38 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ment of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !) 
and there were some of the houses of the original settlers 
standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks, 
brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good- 
natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a 
descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in 
the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 
him to the siege of fort Christina. He inherited, however, 
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
observed that he was a simple good-natured man ; he was 
moreover a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked hus- 
band. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing 
that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal pop- 
ularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and 
conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews 
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and 
malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a 
curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for 
teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A ter- 
magant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered 
a tolerable blessing ; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice 
blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the 
good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, 
took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, when- 
ever they talked those matters over in their evening gossip- 
ings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children 
of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he ap- 
proached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them 
long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians, Whenever he 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



39 



went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop 
of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and 
playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a 
dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 
aversion to all kin^s of profitable labor. It could not be 
from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit 
on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 
lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he 
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry 
a fowling-piece on his shoulder, for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to 
shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse 
to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a 
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, 
or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used 
to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd 
jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them ;— 
in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but 
his own j but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in 
order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; 
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole 
country ; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong 
in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; 
his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; 
weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields that anywhere 
else j the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some out-door work to do : so that though his patrimonial es- 
tate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, 
until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian 
corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in 
the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they be- 
longed to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own 
likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothe^ 



^o WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at 
his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off 
galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one 
hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, 
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat 
white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought 
or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for 
a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, 
in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning 
in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin 
he was bringing on his family. 

Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly go- 
ing, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a tor- 
rent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of reply- 
ing to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had 
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, al- 
ways provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was 
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the 
house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked 
husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was 
as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle re- 
garded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon 
Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so 
often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an 
honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever- 
during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The 
moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped 
to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame 
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, 
he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 41 

years of matrimony rolled on : a tart temper never mellows 
with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows 
keener with constant use. For a long while he used to con- 
sole himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind 
of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle 
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench 
before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his 
majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the 
shade of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village 
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard 
the profound discussions which sometimes took place, when 
by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some 
passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the 
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- 
master, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be 
daunted by the most gigantic w^ord in the dictionaiy \ and how 
sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of 
the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning 
till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep 
in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell 
the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It 
is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe in- 
cessantly. His adherents, however, (for every great man has 
his adherents,) perfectly understood him, and knew how to 
gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related 
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, 
and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and 
emit it in light and placid clouds,- and sometimes taking the 
pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl 
about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect 
approbation. 



42 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IR VING. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in 
upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members 
all to nought ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Ved- 
der himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible vi- 
rago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband 
in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his 
only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm and the 
clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at 
the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with 
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in perse- 
cution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee 
a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs 
can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment 
with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day. Rip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favourite sport of 
squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re- 
echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he 
threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll covered 
with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. 
From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the 
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at 
a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving 
on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a 
purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 
sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the 
blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain 
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with frag- 
ments from the impending cliifs, and scarcely lighted by the 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 43 

reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay mu- 
sing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing j the 
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the 
valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he could 
reach the village ; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought 
of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend he heard a voice from a dis- 
tance hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " He 
looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its 
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy 
must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he 
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, " Rip 
Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle I " — at the same time Wolf 
bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his 
master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now 
felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked anx- 
iously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see 
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but 
supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of 
his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the sin- 
gularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square- 
built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. 
His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion— a cloth jerkin 
strapped round the waist— several pair of breeches, the outer 
one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down 
the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoul- 
ders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signj 
for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance. Rip com- 
plied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other, 
they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of 
a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and 
then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed 



44 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty- 
rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused 
for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of 
those transient thunder-showers which often take place in the 
mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which, im 
pending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time. Rip and his companion had labored 
on in silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly what 
could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild 
mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehen- 
sible about the unknown, that inspired awe, and checked 
familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre- 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a com- 
pany of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They 
were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion : some wore short 
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and 
most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with 
that of the guide's. Their visages too, were peculiar : one had 
a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted 
by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. 
They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There 
was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout 
old gentleman, vv^ith a Vi^eather-beaten countenance \ he wore 
a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an 
old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, 
the village parson, and which had been brought over from 
Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they main- 



^:^cw^i^ 



SKE TCTI-n O OK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GFNT. 45 

tained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and 
were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had 
ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene 
but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, 
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- 
denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such a 
fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre 
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees 
smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of 
the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon 
the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling'; they 
quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to 
their game. 

By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the 
beverage which he found had much of the flavor of excellent 
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon 
tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at 
length his .senses were overpowered, his eyes svv-am in his head, 
his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed 
his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was 
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. 
" Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." 
He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange 
man with the keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild 
retreat among the rocks — the wo-begone party at nine pins — 
the fiagon — " Oh ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what 
excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, 
the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the 



46 WORICS OF iVASHmCTON IRVING. 

s ock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters 
of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed 
him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had 
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel 
or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, 
but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, 
but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his 
dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in 
the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These moun- 
tain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this 
frolic should lay me up -with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall 
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
difficulty he got down into the glen ; he found the gully up 
which he and his companion had ascended the preceding 
evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now 
foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the 
glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to 
scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel ; and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted 
their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such 
opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable 
wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of 
feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from 
the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor 
Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled 
after his dog j he was only answered by the cawing of a flock 
of idle crows, sporting high in the air about a dry tree that 
overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their eleva- 
tion, seemed to look down and scoAl at the poor man's per- 
plexities. What was to be done ? The morning was passing 



SKETCH-BOGK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



47 



away, and Rip felt famished for v/ant of his breakfast. He 
grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his 
wife j but it would not do to starve among the mountains. 
He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a 
heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, 
but none whom he new, which somewhat surprised him, for 
he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the coun- 
try round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from 
that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him 
with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes 
upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recur- 
rence of this gesture, induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, 
when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a 
foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and point- 
ing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he re- 
cognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. 
The very village was altered : it was larger and more popu- 
lous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen be- 
fore, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disap- 
peared. Strange names v/ere over the doors — strange faces 
at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now mis- 
gave him j he began to doubt whether both he and the world 
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native 
village, which he had left but a day before. There stood the 
Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- 
tance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had al- 
ways been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon last 
night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the v^^ay to his 
own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting 
every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. 
He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the 
windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 



4^ WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Starved clog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. 
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, 
and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. — " My very 
dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all 
his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children 
— the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and 
then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and 
over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan 
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the 
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red 
night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a 
singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange 
and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 
so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly meta- 
morphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and 
buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the 
head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was 
painted in large characters. General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but 
Done that Rip recollected. The very character of the people 
seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy 
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, 
with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches ; or Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking 



Tiim^'^ - 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 49 

fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing 
vehemently about rights of citizens — election — members of 
Congress — liberty — Bunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — 
and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 
bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women 
and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, 
eyeing him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The 
orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, in- 
quired, " on which side he voted ? " Rip stared in vacant 
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by 
the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether 
he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to 
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the 
crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as 
he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkie, with 
one arm a-kimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes 
and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de- 
manded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election 
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismaj^ed, "I 
am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal sub- 
ject of the King, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " a tory ! 
a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " 

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in 
the cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, 
what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but 
merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who 
used to keep about the tavern. 
4 



5^ 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a mom^jTit, and inquired, " Where's 
Nicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a littl'? while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ? why, he 
is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
tomb-stone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, 
but that's rotten and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Butcher ? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war , 
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point — others 
say he was drowned in the squall, at the foot of Antony's 
Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." 

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " 

" He went off to the wars, too j was a great militia general, 
and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in 
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the 
world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such 
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not 
understand : war — Congress — Stony-Point ! — he had no cour- 
age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
" Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle } " 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. " Oh, 
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself 
as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly 
as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or 
another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in 
the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his 
name ? 

" God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end ; " I'm not 
myself — I'm somebody else — that's rne yonder — no — that's 
somebody else, got into my shoes — I was myself last night, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. ^^ 

but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my 
gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't 
tell what's my name, or who I am I " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- 
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, 
and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief ; at the very 
suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked 
hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment 
a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to get a 
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, 
Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't 
hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the 
tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his 
mind. 

" What is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and 
never has been heard of since — his dog came home without 
him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by 
the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask j but he put it with 
a faltering voice : 

" Where's your mother ? " 

Oh, she too had died but a short time since \ she broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " 
cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ! " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 



^2 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough \ 
it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, 
old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put 
their tongues in their cheeks ; and the self-important man in 
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned 
to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook 
his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head 
throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road 
He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote 
one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the 
most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all 
the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. 
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the 
most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it 
was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that 
the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange 
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hud- 
son, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind 
of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half 
moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his 
enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the 
great city called by his name. That his father had once seen 
them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in the 
hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals 
of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a 
snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a 



I 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON; GENT. 53 

husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that 
used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who 
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was 
employed to work on the farm ; but evinced a hereditary dis- 
position to attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for 
the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends 
among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into 
great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he 
took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and 
was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a 
chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some 
time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or 
could be made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a 
revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke 
of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his 
majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the 
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes 
of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but 
there was one species of despotism under which he had long 
groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily, 
that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, 
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When- 
ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might 
pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy 
at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing 
%o his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down pre- 



54 WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

cisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or 
child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some 
always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that 
Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on 
which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabi- 
tants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer 
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hud- 
son and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a 
common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

Note. — The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor 
Frederick der Rothbartzx\di the Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note, 
however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute 
fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Vui Winkle may seem incredible to many, but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch 
settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. 
Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along 
the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. 
~ I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw 
him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent 
on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to 
take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject 
taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's 
own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 55 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 

" Methinks I see in my mind a noble puissant nation, rousing herself 
like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks 
I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endaz- 
zled eyes at the full mid-day beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary 
animosity daily growing up between England and America. 
Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the 
United States, and the London press has teemed with vol- 
umes of travels through the Republic ; but they seem in- 
tended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so suc- 
cessful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant 
intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning 
whom the great mass of the British public have less pure in- 
formation, or entertain more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can 
equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, 
or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but 
when either the interest or reputation of their own country 
comes in collision with that of another, they go to the oppo- 
site extreme, and forget their usual probity and candor, in the 
indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of 
ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the 
more remote the country described. I would place implicit 
confidence in an Englishman's description of the regions be- 
yond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the 
Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other tract 



e6 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

which other travellers might be apt to picture out with the 
illusions of their fancies. But I would cautiously receive his 
account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations 
with which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. 
However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not 
trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be 
visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While men 
of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent 
from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, 
and to study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, 
with which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit 
or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, 
the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Man- 
chester and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting 
America. From such sources she is content to receive her 
information respecting a country in a singular state of moral 
and physical development ; a country in which one of the 
greatest political experiments in the history of the world is 
now performing, and which presents the most profound and 
momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America, 
is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contem- 
plation, are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The 
national character is yet in a state of fermentation : it may 
have its frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound 
and wholesome : it has already given proofs of powerful and 
generous qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down 
into something substantially excellent. But the causes which 
are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- 
tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind 
observers ; who are only affected by the little asperities inci- 
dent to its present situation. They are capable of judging 
only of the surface of things ; of those matters which come 
in contact with their private interests and personal gratifica- 
tions. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty 



SKE TCH'BOOK OP GEOFFRE V CRA YON, GEN T. 5 y 

comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over- 
populous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor 
are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence, 
by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. 
These minor comforts, however, are all-important in the esti- 
mation of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or 
will not acknowledge, that they are more than counterbalanced 
among us, by great and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un- 
reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pic- 
tured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and 
silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; 
and where they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, 
in some unforeseen but easy manner. The same weakness of 
mind that indulges absurd expectations, produces petulance 
in disappointment. Such persons become embittered against 
the country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a man 
must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by indi:;stry 
and talent ; and must contend with the common difficulties 
of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enter- 
prising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or 
from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the 
stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have 
been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and, having 
been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below 
the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feel- 
ing of inferiority, they become arrogant, on the common boon 
of civility ; they attribute to the lowliness of others their own 
elevation ; and underrate a society where there are no artifi- 
cial distinctions, and where by any chance, su'-.h individuals 
as themselves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that infotitiation coming 
from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, 
would be received with caution by the censors of the press ; 
that the motives of these men, their veracity^ their opportuni- 



58 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ties of inquiry and observation, and their capacities for judg- 
ing correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized, before their 
evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against a 
kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and 
it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. 
Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English critics 
will examine the credibility of the traveller who publishes an 
account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant, 
country. How warily will they compare the measurements 
of a pyramid, or the description of a ruin ; and how sternly 
will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of 
merely curious knowledge ; while they will receive, with eager- 
ness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of 
coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country with which 
their own is placed in the most important and delicate rela- 
tions. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal volumes 
text-books, on which to enlarge, with a zeal and an ability 
worthy of a more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue in- 
terest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain 
injurious effects which I apprehend it might produce upon 
the national feeling. We attach too much consequence to 
these attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The 
tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us, 
are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. 
Our country continually outgrows them. One falsehood after 
another falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every 
day we live a whole volume of refutation. All the writers of 
England united, if we could for a moment suppose their great 
minds stooping to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal 
our rapidly growing importance and matchless prosperity. They 
could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical 
and local, but also to moral causes ; — to the political liberty, 
the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound, 
moral, and religious principles, which give force and sustained 



SKE TCtT'BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YOJV, GENT. 59 

energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact, have 
been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their own 
national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of 
England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the 
contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in 
the opinion of England alone that honor lives, -and reputation 
has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's 
fame : with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, 
and from their collective testimony is national glory or 
national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not \ it is, per- 
haps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling 
anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to 
grow with its growth, and strengthen with its strength. If in 
America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince her, 
she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, 
she may thank those very writers for having provoked rival- 
ship, and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-per- 
vading influence of literature at the present day, and how 
much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its 
control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; 
their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the 
generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the 
pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest 
spirits j they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it mor- 
bidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom 
that any one overt act produces hostilities between two nations ; 
there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a 
predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and 
how often will they be found to originate in the mischievous 
effusions of mercenary writers ; who, secure in their closets, 
and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom 
that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point j for it 



6o WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

applies most emphatically to our particular case. Ovcf no 
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over 
the people of America ; for the universal education of the 
poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is 
nothing published in England on the subject of our country, 
that does not circulate through every part of it. There is not 
a calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an unworthy sar- 
casm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to 
blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. 
Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head from 
whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is 
it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the 
medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream where 
the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and 
kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters 
of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her 
folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little 
moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country do 
not admit of a doubt : over those of England, there lower 
some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom 
arrive — should those reverses overtake her, from which the 
proudest empires have not been exempt— she may look back 
with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a 
nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de- 
stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the bound- 
aries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the people 
of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It 
is one of the errors which has been diligently propagated by 
designing writers. These is, doubtless, considerable political 
hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the Eng- 
lish press ; but, collectively speaking, the prepossessions of 
the people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one 
time they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd 
degree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a pass- 
port to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. ^\ 

often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the un- 
grateful. Throughout the country, there was something of 
enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We looked 
to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as 
the land of our forefathers — the august repository of the monu- 
ments and antiquities of our race — the birth-place and mau- 
soleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After 
our own country, there was none in whose glory we more de- 
lighted — none whose good opinion we were anxious to possess 
— none toward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings 
of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever 
there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, 
it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to 
show, that in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the 
sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever i* — 
Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an allusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have 
interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented 
the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give 
up the kindred tie ! — and there are feelings dearer than inter- 
est — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast 
back a look of regret as we wander farther and farther from 
the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on 
our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt 
and spirited vindication of our country, or the keenest castiga- 
taion of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retali- 
ate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which 
seems to be spreading v/idely among our writers. Let us 
guard particularly against such a temper \ for it would double 
the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy 
and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a 



62 WORKS OP WASHmCTloM IRVING, 

paltry and unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a 
morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into 
indignation. If England is willing to permit the mean 
jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to 
deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of 
public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem 
it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for 
the purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of 
the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national 
jealousy to gratify ; for as yet, in all our rivalships with Eng- 
land, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can 
be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resent- 
ment — a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. 
Our retorts are never republished in England j they fall short, 
therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peev- 
ish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our 
early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blos- 
soms. What is still worse, they circulate through our own 
country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national 
prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be depre- 
cated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the 
utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the 
public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge ; 
whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully 
saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should 
be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions 
of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be en- 
abled to come to all questions of national concern with calm 
and unbiassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of our 
relations with England, we must have more frequent questions 
of a difficult and delicate character with her, than with any 
other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and excit- 
able feelings : and as, in the adjusting of these, our national 
measures must ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, 
we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all 
latent passion or prepossession. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. (^-^ 

Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every 
portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. 
It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, 
at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising, not 
merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and 
noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? They are 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and 
ignorant ages, when nations knew but little c f each other, 
and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and 
hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national ex- 
istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the differ- 
ent parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of 
the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made 
known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our 
birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we 
would the local superstitions, of the old world. 

But above all, let us not be influenced by any angry feel- 
ings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is 
really excellent and amiable in the English character. We are 
a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our 
examples and models, in a great degree, from the existing 
nations of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our 
study than England. The spirit of her constitution is most 
analogous to ours. The manners of her people — their intel- 
lectual activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of 
thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests 
and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to 
the American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically ex- 
cellent : for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the 
deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and however 
the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, 
there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the 
materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice that so 
long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 



64 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality 
of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prej- 
udice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the 
indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our countrymen 
admire and imitate everything English, merely because it is 
English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of 
approbation. We may thus place England before us as a 
perpetual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound de- 
ductions from ages of experience j and while we avoid the 
errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we 
may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, where- 
with to strengthen and to embellish our national character. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- 
lish character, must not confine his observations to the me- 
tropolis. He must go forth into the country \ he must sojourn 
in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm- 
houses, cottages j he must wander through parks and gardens j 
along hedges and green lanes \ he must loiter about country 
churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals ; 
and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their 
habits and humors. 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and 
fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant 
and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost 
entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, 
the metropolis is a mere gathering place, or general rendez- 
vous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion 
of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and having in- 
dulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently 
more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of 
society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the 
kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford speci- 
mens of the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and 
5 



66 WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

2l keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. 
This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants 
of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bus- 
tling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a 
tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat 
in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as 
much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, 
and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of 
his business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. 
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have 
something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. 
In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing- 
room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers j every 
spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; 
and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque 
taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt to 
form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He 
is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand 
engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this 
huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of 
hurry and abstraction. Wherever be happens to be, he is on 
the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talk- 
ing on one subject, his mind is wandering to another ; and 
while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall 
economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the 
morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is calculated 
to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and 
transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superfices of character — its rich and 
genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold for- 
malities and negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits 
of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 67 

manages to collect round him all the conveniences and ele- 
gancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country 
seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retire- 
ment, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, 
music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are 
at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon his guests or him- 
self, but, in the true spirit of hospitality, provides the means 
of enjoyment, and leaves everyone to partake according to 
his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have 
studied Nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of 
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those 
charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild solitudes, 
are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They 
seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread 
them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets cf 
vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, 
heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves 
and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds 
across them ; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the 
pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught 
to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake 
— the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fear- 
lessly about its limpid waters : while some rustic temple, or 
sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air 
of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery : but 
what most delights me, is the creative talent with which the 
English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. 
The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty por- 
tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes 
a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes 



68 WORKS OF WASHTNGTOISF IRVING. 

at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the 
future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness 
under his hand; and yet the operations of art which produce 
the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the 
nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the 
partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
water — all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervad- 
ing yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a 
painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
country, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very 
laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, 
attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass- 
plot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug 
box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging 
its blossoms about the lattice ; the pot of flowers in the 
window j the holly, providently planted about the house, to 
cheat vi^inter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of 
green summer to cheer the fireside ; — all these bespeak the 
influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and per- 
vading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, 
as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cot- 
tage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 
the English, has had a great and salutary effect upon the na- 
tional character. I do not know a finer race of men than the 
English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy 
which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they 
exhibit an union of elegance and strength, a robustness of 
frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to 
attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing 
so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. The 
hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT 69 

spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which 
even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily 
pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, 
the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, 
to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon 
each other. The distinction between them do not appear to 
be so marked and impassable, as in the cities. The manner 
in which property has been distributed into small estates and 
farms, has established a regular gradation from the noblemen, 
through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and 
substantial farmer, down to the laboring peasantry j and 
while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, 
has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of indepen- 
dence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the 
case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates hav- 
ing, in late 5^ears of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in 
some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race 
of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual 
breaks in the general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debasing. 
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and 
beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, op- 
erated upon by the purest and most elevating of external in- 
fluences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he can- 
not be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds noth- 
ing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural 
life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower 
orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and 
is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 
bonest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the 
very amusements of the country bring men more and more to- 
gether ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings 
into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the no- 
bility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in 
England, than they are in any other country : and why the lat- 
ter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, 



yo WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of 
fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British 
literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; 
those incomparable descriptions of Nature, that abound in 
the British poets — that have continued down from " the Flower 
and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets 
all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The 
pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid 
Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her 
general charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled 
with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — 
they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground 
— a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance 
could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold 
its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by 
these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural oc- 
cupations, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A 
great part of the island is rather level, and would be monot- 
onous, were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is studded 
and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and em- 
broidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in 
grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes 
of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house 
and moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are 
continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and 
hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of 
small landscapes of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the 
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in 
the mind witn ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established 
principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. yj- 

seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful ex- 
istence. The old church, of remote architecture, with its low 
massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows, rich with tra- 
cery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation — its stately- 
monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, an- 
cestors of the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, re- 
cording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose pro- 
geny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar 
— the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, 
but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and oc- 
cupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church-yard, 
across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according 
to an immemorable right of way — the neighboring village, with 
its venerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by trees, un- 
der which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the 
antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- 
rounding scene — all these common features of English land- 
scape evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary trans- 
mission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that 
speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the 
nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell 
is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold 
the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and 
modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green 
lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in 
the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and ap- 
pearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments 
which their own hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of aifec- 
tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the 
steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close 
these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of 
a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable 
felicity. 



72 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING, 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade. 
But chief from modest niansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed. 
This western isle has long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : 
Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard), 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would fly for through the earth 5 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven, 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* 

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Rev- 
erend Rann Kennedy, A. M. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA VOJV, GENT. 73 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
"With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived the 
susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the 
gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, 
and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of 
novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have 
induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me,* 
that however the surface of the character may be chilled 
and frozen by .the cares of the world, or cultivated into 
mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires 
lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once 
enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in 
their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, 
and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? 
— I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of 
disappointed love ! I do not, however, consider it a malady 
often fatal to my own sex j but I firmly believe that it withers 
down many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. 
Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped 
in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, 
for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fel- 
low-men, But a woman's whole life is a history of the affec- 



74 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

tion. The heart is her world ; it is there her ambition strives 
for empire — it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. 
She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks 
her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, 
her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness- — it blasts 
some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being ; he 
may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, 
or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of 
disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift 
his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the 
morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be 
at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a 
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own 
thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of 
sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to 
be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is 
like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and 
abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! 
As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and 
conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals — so is it the 
nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs of 
wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always 
shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes 
it to herself ; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses 
of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the 
ruins of her peace. With her, the desire of her heart has 
failed — the great, charm of existence is at an end. She ne- 
glects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, 
quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful cur- 
rents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOPFRRY CRAYON, GENT. 



75 



£reshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry 
sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
under the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a 
while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely 
grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with 
all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be 
brought down to " darkness and the worm. ".You will be told 
of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her 
low — but no one knows the mental malady that previously 
sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the 
spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove : graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 
ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf; until, 
wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have 
smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have re- 
peatedly fancied, that I could trace their deaths through the 
various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed 
love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the 
circumstances are well known in the country where they hap- 
pened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they 
were related. 

Everyone must recollect the tragical story of young 
E , the Irish patriot : it was too touching to be soon for- 
gotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, con- 
demned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate 
made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so 
young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so everything 



y5 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under 
trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation 
with which he repelled the charge of treason against his coun- 
try—the eloquent vindication of his name — and his pathetic 
appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — 
all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even 
his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his exe- 
cution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be im- 
possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he 
had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early 
love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; 
when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened 
around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his 
very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy 
even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose 
whole soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who 
have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between 
them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat 
at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, 
from whence all that was most lovely and loving had de- 
parted. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — so frightful, so 
dishonored ! There was nothing for memory to dwell on 
that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those ten- 
der, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the j^arting 
scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, 
like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting 
hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had 
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- 
ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the 
sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced 



SICETCH-BOO}C OP GEOFFREY CkA YOJ^y GENT. yy 

no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick 
and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing 
attentions were paid her, by families of wealth and distinction. 
She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occu- 
pation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her 
from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. 
There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the 
soul — that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast 
it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected 
to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much 
alone there, as in the depths of solitude. She walked about 
in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around 
her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all 
the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not the song 
of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 
more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. 
To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where 
all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of 
mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in 
vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness 
of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and 
giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself 
down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some 
time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the 
garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly 
heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite 
voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching — 
it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness — that she drew 
a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted everyone 
into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It 
completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his ad- 
dresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could 



78 IVORJ^S OP' WASHINGTON IRVING, 

not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his at- 
tentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed by the 
memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his 
suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He 
was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of 
her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was exist- 
ing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length suc- 
ceeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, 
that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be 
a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring 
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted 
away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into 
the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 
composed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 

He had lived for his love— for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entv/ined him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried. 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the wes^ 

From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



79 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' it is a greater offence to 
steal dead men's labors than their clothes,' — what shall become of most 
writers ? " 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the 
press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which 
Nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet 
teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, 
however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily 
diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple 
cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced 
in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder 
upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of 
the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonish- 
ment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons 
of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one 
is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather ; sometimes 
lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, 
with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical 
paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing about in 
this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant floor, at 
the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every 
now and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, 
generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through 
the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. 
There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid 



go WORICS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that 
strait, and to explore the unknown regions that lay beyond. 
The door yielded to my hand, with all that facility with which 
the portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous 
knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, sur- 
rounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the 
cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great num- 
ber of black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the 
room were placed long table?^, with stands for reading and 
writing, at which sat many pale, cadaverous personages, por- 
ing intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy 
manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. The 
most hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apart- 
ment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over 
sheets of paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these 
sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an 
old folio ; doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatu- 
lency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a 
familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, 
glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ponder- 
ous tomes, upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, 
with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had 
happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study 
of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian 
tale, of a philosopher, who was shut up in an enchanted library, 
in the bosom of a mountain, that opened only once a year ; 
where he made the spirits of the place obey his commands, 
and bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that 
at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more 
swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in for- 
bidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the 
multitude, and to control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity being iiow fully aroused, I whispered to one 
of the familiars, as he V "^s about to leave the room, and begged 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. gi 

an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few 
words were sufficient for the purpose : — I found that these 
mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were 
principally authors, and were in the very act of manufacturing 
books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British 
Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages and 
languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of 
which are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of obso- 
lete literature, therefore, do many modern authors repair, and 
draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," 
wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. 
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none 
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black- letter. He 
was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition, 
that would be purchased by every man who wished to be 
thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, 
or laid open upon his table — ^but never read. I observed him, 
now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his 
pocket, and gnaw j whether it v/as his dinner, or whether he 
was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach, 
produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder 
students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright colored 
clothes, with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, 
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with 
his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recog- 
nized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which 
bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he 
manufactured his wares. He made more show and stir of 
business than any of the others ; dipping into various books, 
fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out 
of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon 
precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his 
book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' 
6 



82 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, 
toe of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured 
in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab and 
good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes ? may it not be the way 
in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowl- 
edge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite 
of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were first 
produced ? We see that Nature has wisely, though whimsi- 
cally provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, 
in the maws of certain birds \ so that animals, which, in them- 
selves, are little better than carrion, and apparently the law- 
less plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, 
Nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. 
In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and 
obsolete writers are caught up by these flights of predatory 
authors, and cast forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a 
remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, 
undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new 
forms. What was formerly a ponderous history, revives in 
the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern 
play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body 
for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it 
is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn 
down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start 
up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a 
tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe 
of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great 
law of Nature, hich declares that all sublunary shapes of 
matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, 
also, that their elements shall never perish. Generation after 
generation, both in animal and vegetsCble life, passes away, 
but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 83 

species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget 
authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good 
old age they sleep with their fathers ; that is to say, with the 
authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; 
or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude 
arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky habit of nap- 
ping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously 
afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my 
imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene re- 
mained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of 
the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated 
with the portraits of ancient authors, but the number was in- 
creased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place of 
the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as 
may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off 
clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon a 
book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- 
thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, 
with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, 
however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any 
particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from an- 
other, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, 
while some of his original rags would peep out from among 
his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one 
of the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of an- 
other, endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirk- 
ing commonplace of his countenance set at naught all the 
trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was 
busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread 
drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen 



84 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from 
an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, 
culled from " The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having 
put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted 
off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was 
but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely 
with the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so 
that he had a very imposing front, but he was lamentably 
tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his small- 
clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among 
their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, 
seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely 
to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and 
spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array 
themselves, from top to toe, in the patch-work manner I have 
mentioned. I should not omit to speak of one genius, in drab 
breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent 
propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural w^anderings had 
been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the 
solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in 
wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and hang- 
ing his head on one side, went about with a fantastical, lack- 
a-daisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the per- 
sonage that most struck my attention, was a pragmatical old 
gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and 
square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and 
puffing, elbowed his way thro'!; h the throng, with a look of 
sturdy self-confidence, and haT-'ng laid hands upon a thick 
Greek quarto, clapped it upo' head, and swept majestically 
away in a formidable frizzled w g. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " thieves ! thieves ! " I looked, 
and lo ! the portraits about the walls became animated ! The 
old authors thrust out first a head, then a shoulder, from the 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 8^ 

canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley 
throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim 
their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub 
that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits en- 
deavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side 
might be seen half-a-dozen old monks, stripping a modern pro- 
fessor j on another, there was sad devastation carried into the 
ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and 
sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volun- 
teer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little com- 
piler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed 
himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and 
there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as 
about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many 
men, whom I had been accustomed to look upon with awe and 
reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their 
nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old 
gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling 
away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full cry 
after him. They were close upon his haunches ; in a twink- 
ling off went his wig j at every turn some strip of raiment was 
peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering 
pomp, he shrunk into a little pursy, " chopp'd bald shot," and 
made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his 
back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of 
laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual 
appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture- 
frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In 
short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole 
assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with astonishment. 
Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, 
a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and 



S6 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

SO abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fra- 
ternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded wheth- 
er I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend 
him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary 
" preserve," subject to game laws, and that no one must pre- 
sume to hunt there without special license and permission. 
In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and 
was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a 
whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, UEiMT. 



^7. 



A ROYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither cheek nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I 
made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of 
storied and poetical associations. The very external aspect 
of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It 
rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown 
around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in 
the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air upon the sur- 
rounding world. 

On this morning, the weather was of this voluptuous vei' 
nal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's 
temperament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him 
to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through 
the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the 
castle, I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits 
of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where 
hang the likenesses of the beauties that graced the gay court 
of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted 
with amorous half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of 
love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus 
enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In travers- 



g8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ing also the " large green courts," with sunshine beaming on 
the gray walls and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind 
was engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but 
hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in 
his stripling days, when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine — 

'''' *' With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the 
ancient keep of the castle, where James the First of Scotland, 
the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for 
many years of his "youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a 
large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still 
in good preservation. It stands on a mound which elevates 
it above the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of 
steps leads to the interior. In the armory, which is a Gothic 
hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was 
shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which I was 
told had once belonged to James. From hence I was con- 
ducted up a stair-case to a suite of apartments of faded mag- 
nificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, 
and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which 
has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry 
and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven, he was sent 
from his home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the 
French court, to be reared under the eye of the French mon- 
arch, secure from the treachery and danger that surrounded 
the royal house of Scotland. It was his mishap, in the course 
of his voyage, to fall into the hands of the English, and he 
was detained a prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that 
a truce existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the tram of 
many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy fa- 
ther. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 89 

"The news," we are told, "was brought to him while at 
supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was 
almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the ser- 
vants that attended him. But being carried to his bed-cham- 
ber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died of hun- 
ger and grief, at Rothesay." * 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years \ but, 
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in 
all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, 
and to give him those mental and personal accomplishments 
deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps in this respect, his im- 
prisonment was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply him- 
self the more exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to 
imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those 
elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. 
The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish histo- 
rians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the description 
of a hero of romance, than of a character in real history. He 
was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, 
to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert 
mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and 
sundry other instruments of music, and was expert in grammar, 
oratory, and poetry." f 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and 
calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, 
it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chiv- 
alry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous cap- 
tivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be 
gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his 
prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds 
corrode, and grow inactive, under the loss of personal Lberty ; 
others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the 

* Buchanan. t Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 



90 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of 
confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts 
and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 

In that her lonely hermitage ! 

Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. * 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that 
it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is 
shut out, it can create a world for itself, and, with necromantic 
power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant 
visions, to make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom 
of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant 
that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he 
conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may 
conceive the " King's Quair," f composed by James during 
his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful break- 
ings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the 
prison-house. 

The subject of his poem is his love for the lady Jane 
Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of 
the blood-royal of England, of whom he became enamoured 
in the course of his captivity. What gives it peculiar value, 
is, that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's 
true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It 
is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in 
fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to find 
a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, 
and seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleas- 
ures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual com- 
petition, which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, 
brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and 

* Roger L'Estrange. t Quair, an old term for book. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. ^x 

obliges him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. 
It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, 
and to find the simple affections of human nature throbbing 
under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet be- 
fore he was a king ; he was schooled in adversity, and reared 
in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom 
time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds 
into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst the adula- 
tion and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, 
have had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his 
situation, or which are connected with the apartment in the 
Tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are 
given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader 
present with the captive in his prison, and the companion of 
his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of 
spirit, and of the incident that first suggested the idea of writ- 
ing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight 
night ; the stars, he says, were twinkling as the fire in the 
high vault of heaven, and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks 
in Aquarius " — he lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a 
book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was 
Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among 
the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his 
great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which 
he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes 
while in prison j and indeed, it is an admirable text-book for 
meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and 
enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing 
to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, 
and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was 
enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a 
talisman which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, 
or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 



^2 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his 
mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness 
of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that 
had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he 
hears the bell ringing to matins, but its sound chiming in with 
his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting 
him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry, he de- 
termines to comply with this intimation ; he therefore takes 
pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross, to implore a 
benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. 
There is something extremfely fanciful in all this, and it is in- 
teresting, as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the 
simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are 
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to 
the mind. 

In the course of his poem, he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and inac- 
tive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the 
world, in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. 
There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they 
are the lamentations of an amiable and social spirit, at being 
denied the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; 
there is nothing in them harsh or exaggerated ; they flow with 
a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more 
touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with 
those elaborate and iterated repinings which we sometimes 
meet with in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds, sickening 
under miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitter- 
ness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his priva- 
tions with acute sensibility ; but having mentioned them, 
passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over un- 
avoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into 
complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the 
suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, 
a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the 
lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses and 



SKETCH-BOOl^ OF GEOFFREY CkAYON GENT. 93 

vigorous delights of life, as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth 
brief but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. 
Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of 
his story, and to contrast with that effulgence of light and love- 
liness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and 
foliage, and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which 
he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene in particu- 
lar which throws all the magic of romance about the old castle 
keep. He had risen, he says, at day-break, according to cus- 
tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless 
pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of 
all joy and remedy, "for, tired of thought, and wo-begone," 
he had wandered to the window to indulge the captive's mis- 
erable solace, of gazing wistfully upon the world from which 
he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small 
garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, 
sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and pro- 
tected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Now was there made fast by the tower's walk 

A garden faire, and in the corners set 
An arbour green with wandis long and small 

Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet 

That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene» 

Beshaded all the alleys that there were. 
And midst of every arbour might be seen. 

The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 
Growing so faire with branches here and there, 

That as it seemed to a lyf without, 

The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 



* Z^ person. 
Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



i''.^*JS?f«^Wf5^i?S'«-''^'i| 



94 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

And on the small green twistis * set 

The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung 
So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Ryght of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom, 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
of his enamoured feeling : 

Worship all ye that lovers be this May; 
For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
birds, he gradually lapses into on of those tender and unde- 
finable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this de- 
licious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which 
he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth 
in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into 
ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if 
it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignif- 
icant of beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments .»* 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 

Loving his folk, and such prosperitee, 
Is it of him, as we in books do find ; 

May he cure hertes setten t and unbynd : 
Hath he upon cure hertes such majstrye ? 

Or is all this but feynjt f antasye ? 

For gi£f he be of so grete excellence 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilt % to him, or done offence, 
That I am thral'd and birdis go at large ? 

* Twistis, small boughs or twigs. t Setten, incline. 

X Gilt, what injury have I done, &c 



fT"^?/ ?^T<wJ|!p?^^ > *' 'm^'^-^'V^v^ V 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON; GENT. 



95 



In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eyes downward, 
he beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that 
ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the 
garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." 
Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight in a moment of loneli- 
ness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the 
fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the object of his 
wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal v/orld. 

There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance to 
the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon 
and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see v/alking in 
the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the ac- 
tual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may 
have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His de- 
scription of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and mi- 
nute manner of his master, and being, doubtless, taken from 
the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
dwells with the fondness of a lover on every article of her 
apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and 
sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly 
chaine of small orfeverye " * about her neck, whereby there 
hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a 
spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of 
white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with more 
freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, 
and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells, 
probably the small Italian hound, of exquisite symmetry, 
which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable 
dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a 
burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty with humble port, 
Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature, 

God better knows than my pen can report. 
Wisdom, largesse, t estate, % and cunning § sure. 

* Wrought gold. t Largesse, bounty. 

\ Estate^ dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 



96 WORKS OF WASH INGTOJSr IRVING. 

In every point so guided her measure, 
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an 
end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the 
amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the 
scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now 
rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of 
unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he 
repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches and 
Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had *' bad farewell 
to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and 
laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled 
flow of love and sorrow, until gradually lulled by the mute 
melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, " half-sleeping, 
half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the 
poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history 
of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and pacing his apartment full of dreary reflections, 
questions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, 
indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has 
been conjured up by preceding circumstances, or whether it is 
a vision intended to comfort and assure him in his despond- 
ency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to 
confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his slum- 
bers. 

Suddenly a turtle-dove of the purest whiteness comes fly- 
ing in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in 
her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is 
written in letters of gold, the following sentence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
The newis glad, that blissful is and sure. 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. gy 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; 
reads it with rapture, and this he says was the first token of 
his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fic- 
tion, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token 
of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined 
according to the fate or fancy of the reader. He concludes 
his poem by intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision 
and by the flower, is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, 
and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of his 
heart. 

Such 13 the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
fact, and how much the embellishment oU fancy, it is fruitless 
to conjecture ; do not, however, let us always consider what- 
ever is romantic as incompatible with real life, but let us 
sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely 
such parts of the poem as were immediately connected with 
the tower, and have passed over a large part which was in 
the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The lan- 
guage of course is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty 
of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the 
present day, but it is impossible not to be charmed with the 
genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of Nature, too, 
with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrim- 
ination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated period 
of the arts. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser 
thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite deli- 
cacy which pervade it, banishing every gross thought, or im- 
modest expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed in 
all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and 
grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and 
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their 
writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges 
7 



^8 WORKS OF WASHING TO xV TRVTNG. 

them as his masters, and in some parts of his poem we find 
traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to 
those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general feat- 
ures of resemblance in the works of contemporary authors 
which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the 
times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; 
they incorporate with their own conceptions, the anecdotes 
and thoughts which are current in society, and thus each gen- 
eration has some features in common, characteristic of the 
age in which it lives. James in fact belongs to one of the 
most brilliant eras of our literary history, and establishes the 
claims of his country to a participation in its primitive honors. 
Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constantly cited 
as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish 
compeer is apt to be passed over in silencej but he is evidently 
worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote, 
but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firma- 
ment of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together 
at the bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in which it has of late been woven 
with captivating fiction has made it a universal study), may 
be curious to learn something of the subsequent history of 
James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady 
Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his 
release, it being imagined by the Court, that a connection with 
the blood-royal of England would attach him to its own inter- 
ests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, 
having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied 
him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted 
wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
of a long interregnum, to strengthen themselves in their pos- 
sessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. 
James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 99 

of his people. He. attached the lower orders to him by the 
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administra- 
tion of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and 
the promotion of everything that could diffuse comfort, com- 
petency, and innocent enjoyment, through the humblest ranks 
of society. He mingled occasionally among the common 
people in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their 
cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himself 
of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized 
and improved; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching 
with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. Hav- 
ing in this generous manner made himself strong in the hearts 
of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of 
the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immu- 
nities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been 
guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper 
obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with 
outward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding 
resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his 
life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, 
Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for the perpetration 
of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson, Sir Robert 
Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less 
note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber 
at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was residing, 
and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His 
faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him 
and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt 
to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she had 
been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was ac- 
complished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former 
times, and of the golden little poem, which had its birth-place 
in this tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than 
common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, 
richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, 



100 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

brought the image of the gallant and romantic pri-nce vividly 
before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where 
he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and 
endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where he 
had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot 
where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same 
genial and joyous month : the birds were again vying with each 
other in strains of liquid melody : everything was bursting into 
vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. 
Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of 
human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene 
of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. 
Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes 
at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was once the moat 
of the keep, and though some parts have been separated by 
dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded 
walks, as in the days of James ; and the whole is sheltered, 
blooming, and retired. There is a charm about the spot that 
has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and con- 
secrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, 
rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the 
gift of poetry, to hallow every place in which it moves \ to 
breathe round nature an odor more exquisite than the per- 
fume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than 
the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a 
warrior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him 
merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of 
the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 
sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common life. 
He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of 
Scottish genius, which has since been so prolific of the most 
wholesome and highly flavored fruit. He carried with him 
mto the sterner regions of the north, all the fertilizing arts of 
southern refinement. He did everything in his power to win 
his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. loi 

soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe a 
grice round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He 
wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness of 
his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which is still pre- 
served, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how dil- 
igently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports 
and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and 
social feeling among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what 
simple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. 
He contributed greatly to improve the national music j and 
traces of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to 
exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild moun- 
tains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected 
his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the 
national character; he has embalmed his memory in song, and 
floated his name down to after-ages in the rich stream of 
Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kind- 
ling at my heart, as I paced the silent scene of his imprison- 
ment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as 
a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never 
felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old 
tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 
romantic loves of the Lady Jane, and the Royal Poet of Scot- 
land. 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Bush. 

There are few places more favorable to the study of 
character, than an English country church. I was once pass- 
ing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the 
vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struck my 
fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, 
which gives such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It 
stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient families, and 
contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated 
dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were en- 
crusted with monuments of every age and style. The light 
streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, 
richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the 
church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gor- 
geous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On 
every side, the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring 
mortality ; some haughty memorial which human pride had 
erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most hum- 
ble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people 
of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, 
furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with 
their arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, 



sketch-book of GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 103 

who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; 
and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches 
in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, 
who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privi- 
leged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been 
the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and good liv- 
ing had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to 
see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible 
to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; 
so having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised 
with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency 
at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making 
observations on my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice 
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that 
there was the least pretension where there was the most ac- 
knowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for 
instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consist- 
ing of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more 
simple and unassuming than their appearance. They gener- 
ally came to church in the plainest equipage and often on foot. 
The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest 
manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to 
the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were 
open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refine- 
ment, but at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and engag- 
ing affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. 
They were dressed fashionably, but simply ; with strict neat- 
ness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 
Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty 
grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free-born souls 
that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of 
inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, 
that never dreads contact and communion with others, how- 



104 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVIA^G, 



ever humole. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sen- 
sitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the 
manner in virhich they would converse with the peasantry about 
those rural concerns and field sports, in which the gentlemen 
of the country so much delight. In these conversations, there 
was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the 
other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank 
by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy citizen, 
who had amassed a vast fortune, and having purchased the es- 
tate and mansion of a ruined nobleman* in the neighborhood, 
was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of a he- 
reditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church 
en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage 
emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance 
from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be 
placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, 
and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two foot- 
men in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed 
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long 
springs with a peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses 
champed their bits, arcned their necks, and glanced their eyes 
more proudly than common hsrses ; either because they had 
got a little of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightlv 
than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There 
was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the 
wall ; a great smacking of the whip ; straining and scrambling 
of the horses ; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels 
through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain- 
glory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked, 
until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet 
in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The 
crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened pre* 



"'-" ^>:/l|^",^ ^'i"'^'*'^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 105 

cipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. 
On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a sud- 
denness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw 
them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, 
open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare everything 
for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- 
zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, look- 
ing about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to 
rule on 'change, and shake the stock-market with a nod. His 
consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There 
seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. 
She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The 
world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had 
fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every- 
thing was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about 
and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel j 
it was one long Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
They were ultra-fashionables in dress, and, though no one 
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appro- 
priateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a 
country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, 
and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed 
dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance 
around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peas- 
antry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when 
their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and 
they made the most profound and elegant curtseys, which 
were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight 
acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who 
came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They 
were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that ped- 



I06 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

antry of dress which marks the man of questionable preten- 
sions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every 
one askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims 
to respectability j yet they were without conversation, except 
the exchange of an occasional phrase. They even moved ar- 
tificially, for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of 
the day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and 
freedom. Art had done everything to accomplish them as 
men of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless 
grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the 
common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious as- 
sumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
two families, because I considered them specimens of what 
is often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, 
and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, 
unless it be accompanied by true nobility of soul j but I have 
remarked, in all countries where these artificial distinctions 
exist, that the very highest classes are always the most cour- 
teous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their 
own standing, are least apt to trespass on that of others : 
whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, 
which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they ap- 
peared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for 
sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good-breed- 
ing. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter 
and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, 
and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congre- 
gation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
himself j standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with 
a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 107 

evident that he was one of these thorough church and king men, 
who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider 
the Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and 
religion " a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be con- 
tenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them, that 
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious j 
as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin 
of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro- 
nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and 
their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home 
across the fields, chatting with the country people as they 
went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. 
Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was 
again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the 
glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at a 
bound \ the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the 
wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspiring family was 
wrapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 



lO^ WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

During my residence in the country, I used frequently to 
attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its 
mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend 
with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt 
of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy 
in its repose — such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of 
Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we 
feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up 
within us. 

" Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ! " 

I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man ; but 
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the 
beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else ; 
and if not a more religious, think I am a better man on 
Sunday, than on any other day of the seven. 

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back 
upon^ the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms 
around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and 
infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than 
abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 109 

in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, 
was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been 
awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to 
have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have 
nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her 
feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually 
conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing 
eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of 
that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses qf 
the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 
I am fond of loitering about country churches ; and this 
was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beauti- 
ful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, 
which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire 
shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gen- 
erally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny 
morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. 
They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected cor- 
ners of the churchyard, where, by the number of nameless 
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friend- 
less were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new- 
made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I 
was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which ex- 
tend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of 
poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the 
plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne 
by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an 
air of cold indiff^ence. There were no mock mourners in the 
trappings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner who 
feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of 
the deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated 



1 1 o WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

on the steps of the altar. She was supported by an hu«mble 
friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the 
neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of 
the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with un- 
thinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish 
curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson 
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with 
prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, 
however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been 
destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled 
through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The 
well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; 
his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never 
did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching 
ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer ; but I could 
perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive 
motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her 
son with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the 
feelings of grief and affection : directions given in the cold 
tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; 
which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most 
withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother 
from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and 
looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached 
A'ith cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her 
hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman 
who attended her, took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise 
her from the earth, and to whisper something like consoia- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 1 1 1 

tion — " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." 
She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one 
not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of 
the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some 
accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all 
the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could 
come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suf- 
fering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — 
my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbar- 
ous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church- 
yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my 
heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of 
the rich ? They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — 
a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the 
sorrows of the young ? Their growing minds soon close above 
the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure 
— their green and ductile affections soon twine around new 
objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward 
appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life 
at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after- 
growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; — 
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impoten^^y 
of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my 
way homeward, I met with the woman who had acted as com- 
forter : she was just returning from accompanying her mother 
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars 
connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 



1 1 2 WOUJ^S OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cot- 
tages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a 
small garden, had supported themselves creditably, and com- 
fortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one 
son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age — 
" Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, " he was such a comely lad, 
so sweet-tempered, so kind to everyone around him, so duti- 
ful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a 
Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, sup- 
porting his old mother to church — for she was always fonder 
of leaning on George's arm, than on her good man's ; and, 
poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there 
was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of 
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of 
one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He 
had not been long in this employ, when he was entrapped by a 
press-gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tid- 
ings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. 
Is was the loss of their main prop. The father, who was al- 
ready infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into 
his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, 
could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. 
Still there was a kind of feeling towards her throughout the 
village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabi- 
tants. As no one applied for the cottage in which she had 
passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in 
it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 
wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty produc- 
tions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and 
then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time 
at which these circumstances were told me, that she was 
gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the 
cottage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A 
stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly 
around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated 



SJCETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYOJV, GENT. 113 

and ghastl}^ pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness 
and liardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her, but 
his steps were faint and faltering \ he sank on his knees be- 
fore her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed 
upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — " Oh my dear, 
dear mother ! don't you know your son ? your poor boy 
George ? " It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad ; 
who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprison- 
ment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, 
to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meet- 
ing, where sorrow and joy were so completely blended : still 
he w^as alive ! — he was come home ! — he might yet live to com- 
fort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted 
in him ; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work 
of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been 
sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his 
widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he 
never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had 
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and as- 
sistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, 
however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother 
was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be 
helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- 
vanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined 
on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign 
land ; but has thought on the mother " that looked on his 
childhood," that, smoothed his pillow, and administered to his 
helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the 
love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections 
of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness,, nor 
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 



114 



H^OJ^UrS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



Stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoy- 
ment j she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity ; — 
and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her 
from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she 
will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if 
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world 
to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in 
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none 
to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight ; 
if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit 
for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes 
he would start from a feverish dream, and looking anxiously 
up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take 
her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tran- 
quillity of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, 
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecu- 
niary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, 
on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had 
prompted them to do everything that the case admitted ; and 
as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I 
did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to 
my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the 
aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this 
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief — and one or two 
more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that 
grief which passes show. — When I looked round upon the 
storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble 
pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over de- 
parted pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. n^ 

age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the 
prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt 
that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted 
themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few 
steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, 
she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I 
left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, 
that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin 
those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, 
and friends are never parted. 



£ 1 6 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 

A SHAKSPERIAN RESEARCH. 

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 
I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather 
should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a 
child, that 'it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor 
the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their 
pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known 
by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to 
moulder in the darkness of his little chapel : another may have 
a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; 
while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of 
some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings 
his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot, his seven- 
branched candlestick ; and even the mendicant pilgrim is by 
no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the 
deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. 
The consequence is, in the eagerness to enlighten, they are 
often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky 
saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness 
of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
Every writer considers it his bounden duty, to light up some 
portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit 
from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produce? 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 1 17 

vast tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send 
up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each 
page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rush-light 
of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of 
smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the 
quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage 
to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, 
however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this 
duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new 
reading ; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen 
different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucida- 
tion ; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised 
by previous admirers : nay, so completely had the bard, of 
late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, 
that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 
argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his 
pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of 
Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the mad- 
cap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and natur- 
ally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force 
and consistency are the characters sustained, that they be- 
come mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages 
of real life. To few readers does it occur, that these are all 
ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no 
such knot of merry roisterers ever enlivened the dull neighbor- 
hood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed, is just as valua- 
ble to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years 
since : and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the 
common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack 
for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
heroes of yore done for me, or men like me ? The5'-have con- 
quered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they 



Ii8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they 
have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I 
have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. 
But old Jack Falstaff ! — kind Jack Falstaff ! — sweet Jack 
Falstaff ! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment ; 
he has added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the 
poorest man may revel j and has bequeathed a never-failing 
inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and 
better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pilgrimage 
to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, *' and see if the old 
Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light 
upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; 
at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the 
halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in 
smelling to the empty cask, once filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu- 
tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and 
wonders I encountered in my travels, of the haunted regions 
of Cock-lane ; of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the 
parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and Old 
Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, 
the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky 
urchins ; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my 
staff upon it, in imitation of that arch-rebel, Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 
Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the 
very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding- 
lane bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, 
says old Stow, " was always famous for its convivial doings. 
The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, 
and other victuals ; there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, 
pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed 
since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The mad- 
cap roisterer has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the 
clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 119 

the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman's 
bell j and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some 
syren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased 
mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built into 
the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little empire of good fellowship, I 
was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had 
been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to 
as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found 
her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked 
out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower- 
garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep 
of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles j the 
two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects 
in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, 
and had her being, for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless, 
in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the uni- 
verse. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true 
wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposition, which I 
have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in 
the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the 
Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the 
valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was un- 
fortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued 
to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying land- 
lord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, 
and other iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of 
publicans, endeavored to make his peace with Heaven, by 



120 WORKS OF WA SHING TON IR VI NG. 

bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's church, Crooked-lane, 
toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the 
vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it was ob- 
served that the old Boar never held up his head under church 
government. He gradually declined, and jfinally gave his 
last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops ; b^t she informed me that a picture of it 
was still preserved in St. Michael's church, which stood just 
in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my de- 
termination j so, having informed myself of the abode of the 
sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of East- 
cheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of 
her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in 
the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to 
ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to ex- 
plore Crooked-lane, and divers little alleys, and dark elbows, 
and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, like 
an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At 
length I traced him to a corner of a small court, surrounded 
by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of 
the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of a 
well. The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a 
bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his 
eye, and if encouraged, would now and then venture a small 
pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture 
to make in the company of high churchwardens, and other 
mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the 
deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels ; discours- 
ing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the 
affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale ; for the lower 
classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter, 
without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their under- 
standings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished 
their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to 
the church to put it in order ; so, having made known my 



SA'E TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE V CJ^A YON, GEN T. j 3 1 

wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany 
them. 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, standing a 
short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs 
of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has 
its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I pre- 
sume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time 
is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations 
of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, 
or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, contains 
also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, 
Knight, who so rnanfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as 
almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of 
arms ; the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned 
as the most pacific of all potentates.* 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this 
worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of fame, 
William Walworth cailyd by name 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight, 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him armes, as here you see, 
To declare his fact and chivaldrie : 
He left this lyfE the year of our God 
Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the vener- 
able Stow : *' Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread abroad by 
vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William 
Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not 
Wat Tylei^ I thought good to reconcile this rash conceived doubt by such 
testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or 
captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second 
was John, or Jack, Straw, &c., &c. — Stow's London^ 



122 WORKS OF WASHTNG TON IR VI NG. 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately 
under the back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, 
stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at 
the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty 
drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus 
quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was 
clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton 
drew me on one side with a mysterious air and informed me, 
in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry 
night, when the wind was unruly, howling and whistling, bang- 
ing about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so 
that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the 
dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of hon- 
est Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the church- 
yard, was attracted by the well-known call of " waiter," from 
the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the 
midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing 
a stave from the " mirrie garland of Captain Death ; " to the 
discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion 
of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the 
spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, ex- 
. cept in the way of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself 
for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known 
that the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis 
are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and everyone 
must have heard of the Cock-lane ghost, and the apparition 
that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so 
many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have 
been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who 
attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally 
prompt with his " anon, anon, sir," and to have transcended 
his predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaff, the veracity of 
whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses 
Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas, honest Preston'§ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 123 

epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the 
soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The 
worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear 
much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster : the 
deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made 
some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought 
up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated 
his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the 
head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on 
the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet 
disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture 
of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be 
found in the church of St. Michael's. " Marry and amen 1 " 
said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was giving the mat- 
ter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the 
sexton, perceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the 
old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, 
which had been handed down from remote times, when the 
parish meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were 
deposited in the parish club-room, which had been transferred, 
on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the 
neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 
12, Mile-lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is 
kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock" of the 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for 
the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of 
some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defied 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined, 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots. 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence. 
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance. 



1^4 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

establishment. It is one of those little taverns, which abound 
in the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and 
intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, 
which was narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes but 
few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the 
inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twi- 
light. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing 
a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. 
This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and 
divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. 
At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before 
which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the man- 
telpiece, and an old-fashoned clock ticked in one corner 
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, 
parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and 
pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything 
had that look of order and neatness which bespeaks the 
superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group 
of amphibious looking beings, who might be either fishermen 
or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As 
I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered 
into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine 
corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with anti- 
quated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of 
a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular cus- 
tomers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose, and 
oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty 
pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with 
an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. 
Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, 
and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame 
Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to 
oblige j and hurrying up stairs to the archives of her house, 
where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposit- 



SKETCH-BOOJt OF GEOFFREY CRAYON; GENT. 125 

ed, she returned, smiling and curtseying with them in her 
hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- 
box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had 
smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemorial ; and 
which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, 
or used on common occasions. I received it with becoming 
reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding on its 
cover the identical painting of which I was in quest ! There 
was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and 
before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at 
table, in full revel, pictured with that wonderful fidelity and 
force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- 
modores are illustrated on tobacco boxes, for the benefit of 
posteiri'ty. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the 
cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal 
and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly 
obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard 
Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head 
Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beautified by his suc- 
cessor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful descrip- 
tion of this august and venerable relic, and I question whether 
the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or 
the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought sangreal, 
with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, 
Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest 
it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which 
also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old 
Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the 
gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, 
in exceeding great value, being considered very "antyke." 
This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman 
with the red nose, and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly 
suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bar- 



1 2 6 IVORKS OF WASmJVC TON- IR I'lNG. 

dolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot 
of porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, 
" Ay ay, the head don't ache now that made that there 
article." 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me ; but 
there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as anti- 
quarian research j for I immediately perceived that this could 
be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which 
Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly : 
and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among 
the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn con- 
tract.* 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the 
goblet had been handed down from generation to generation. 
She also entertained me with many particulars concerning 
the worthy vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly 
on the stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like 
so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of 
Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers 
should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice 
it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe 
that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled 
there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes con- 
cerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the 
Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from 
their forefathers j and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, 
whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has 
several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, 
with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some 

* Thou didst swear to me upon 2, parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dol- 
phin Chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in 
Whitsun week, when the Prince broke thy head for likening his father to a 
singing man of Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy 
wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny 
it ?— Henry IV. J>art 2. 



SKETCH-BOOIC OF GEOFFREY CRAYO]^, GENT. 1^7 

farther inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. 
His head had declined a Httle on one side j a deep sigh 
heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, and, though I 
could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was 
evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the 
direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and 
found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting 
in dripping richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. 
My bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand 
a small token of my gratitude and good-will, I departed with 
a hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the parish 
club of Crooked-lane — not forgetting my shabby, but senten- 
tious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus I have given a " tedious brief" account of this interest- 
ing research ; for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, 
so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a 
more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have 
swelled the materials I have touched upon, to a good mer- 
chantable bulk, comprising the biographies of William 
Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; some notice of 
the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the history of 
Eastcheap, great and little ; private anecdotes of Dame 
Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even 
mentioned : to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of 
lamb ( and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass 
with a neat foot and ankle) ; the whole enlivened by the 
riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future 
commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, 
and the " parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to 
light, the subject of future engravings, and almost as fruitful 
of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of 
Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 



1 2^ WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great periods shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly layes, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which 
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some 
quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries, and build 
our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood, I was loitering 
about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying 
the luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify 
with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an irruption of 
madcap boys from Westminster school, playing at foot-ball, 
broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the 
vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merri- 
ment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrat- 
ing still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to 
one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted 
me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of 
former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to 
the Chapter-house, and the chamber in which Doomsday 
Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door 
on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double 
locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. 
We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and passing 
through a second door, entered the library. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON-, GENT. 129 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by 
a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the 
floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the 
cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of 
the church in his robes hung over the fire-place. Around 
the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in 
carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polem- 
ical writers, and w^ere much more w^orn by time than use. 
In the centre of the library was a solitary table, with two or 
three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens 
parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet 
study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among 
the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult 
of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of 
the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the 
sound of a bell tolling for prayers that echoed soberly along 
the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment 
, grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell 
ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the 
dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table 
in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I 
was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet 
of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around 
upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged 
on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, 
I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, 
where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and left 
to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head — 
how many weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How 
have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells 
and cloisters ; shut themselves up from the face of man, and 
9 ^ 



130 WORTHS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the still more blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves 
to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? 
to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the titles of their 
works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy 
churchman, or casual straggler like myself ; and in another 
age to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount 
of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a 
local sound j like the tone of that bell wdiich has just tolled 
among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering 
transiently in echo — and then passing away, like a thing that 
was not ! 

While I sat half -murmuring, half-meditating these unprof- 
itable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was 
thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I ac- 
cidentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, 
the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from 
a deep sleep ; then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. 
At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much 
troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven 
across it , and having probably contracted a cold from long ex- 
posure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short 
time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it 
an exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, 
to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronuncia- 
tion what in the present day would be deemed barbarous ; 
but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in 
modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other 
such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained 
bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two cen- 
turies j — that the Dean only looked now and then into the 
library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with 
them for a few moments, and then returned them to their 
shelves. 

"What a plague do they mean^" said the little quarto, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 131 

which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what 
a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes 
of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like 
so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now 
and then by the Dean ? Books were written to give pleasure 
and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the 
Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year j or if 
he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose 
the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate 
we may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your genera- 
tion. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are 
like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which 
lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of 
their contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of na- 
ture, have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking 
big, " I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms 
of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
like other great contemporary works ; but here have I been 
clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have si- 
lently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very 
vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance given 
me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to 
pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the 
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
been no more. To judge from 5^our physiognomy, you are 
now well stricken in years ; very few of your contemporaries 
can be at present in existence ; and those few owe iheir lon- 
gevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, 
suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might 
more properly and gratefully have compared to those infirm- 
aries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of 
the old and decrepid, and where, by quiet fostering and no 



132 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-noth- 
ing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in cir- 
culation — where do we meet with their works ? — what do we 
hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln ? No one could have 
toiled, harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, 
a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the 
pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely dis- 
turbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giral- 
dus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theo- 
logian, and poet t He declined two bishoprics that he might 
shut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity never 
inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, 
who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on 
the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by 
forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled 
the miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three 
great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag- 
ment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in 
literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, 
the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life ? — 
of William of Malmsbury ; of Simeon of Durham ; of Benedict 

of Peterborough ; of John Hanvill of St Albans ; of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, " how 
old do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived 
long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so 
that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved 
to be forgotten ;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from 
the press of the renovsrned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to 
cndyte, and have many noble things f ulfilde, but certes there ben some that 
speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as 
good a fantasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen's Englishe. 

Chaucer's Testament cfLffV€<> 



in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had 
become fixed; and, indeed, I was considered a model of pure 
and elegant English." 

[I should observe that these remarks \^ere couched in 
such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite 
difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.] 

" I cry you mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; 
but it matters little ; almost all the writers of your time have 
likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publi- 
cations are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The 
purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your 
claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of 
authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy 
Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of 
mongrel Saxon."^ Even now, many talk of Spenser's ' well 
of pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang 
from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere con- 
fluence of various tongues perpetually subject to changes and 
intermixtures. It is this which has made English literature 
so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so 
fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something 
more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even 
thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall into 
decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and ex- 
ultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language 
in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and 
subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. 
He looks back, and beholds the early authors of his country^ 
once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers j 

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by diligent 
travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Gowrie, in the time of Richard the 
Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, 
our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it 
never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned 
and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the samQ 
to their great praise and immortal comrnendviiiou," 



134 



WORKS OF WASHING TOJV IRVING. 



a few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their 
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. 
And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, 
however it may be admired in its day, and help as a model 
of purity, will, in the course of years, grow antiquated and ob- 
solete, until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its na- 
tive land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic in- 
scriptions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," 
added I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding 
and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the 
good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all 
the splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hun- 
dred years not one of them would be in existence ! " 

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I see 
how it is j these modern scribblers have superseded all the 
good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but 
Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mir- 
ror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unpar- 
alleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so 
when you were last in circulation, have long since had their 
day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which 
was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, 
was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns 
of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has 
strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings 
were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated 

*** Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and 
the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world 
that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the 
honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and 
the intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of 
Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of 
excellency in print.'* 

Harvey's Pierce's Supererogation. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON GENT. 135 

by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole 
crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have 
likewise gone down with all their writings and their contro- 
versies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled 
over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and 
then that some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity 
brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability 
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit 
of the world at large, and of authors ia particular. To reason 
from analogy j we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes 
of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for 
a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their 
successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature 
would be a grievance instead of a blessing ; the earth would 
groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface be- 
come a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of 
genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent pro- 
ductions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away 
the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted 
time : otherwise the creative powers of genius would over- 
stock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered 
in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some 
restraints on this excessive multiplication : works had to be 
transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious opera- 
tion j they were written either on parchment, which was ex- 
pensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for 
another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely 
perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, 
pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their 
cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and 
costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these 
circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that we 
have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that 
the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern 
geniu^ drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper 



136 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

and the press have put an end to all these restraints : they 
have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to 
pour itself into jDrint, and diffuse itself over the whole intel- 
lectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream 
of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a 
river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or 
six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what 
would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing 
three or four hundred thousand volumes j legions of authors 
at the same time busy ; and a press going on with fearfully in- 
creasing activity, to double and quadruple the number ? Un- 
less some unforeseen mortality should break Out among the 
progeny of the Muse, now that she has become so prolific, I 
tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language 
will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much ; it increases 
with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those 
solitary checks on population spoken of by economists. All 
possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the 
growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain \ 
let criticism do what it may, writers will write printers will print, 
and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. 
It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn 
their names. Many a man of passable information at the 
present day reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before 
long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere walk- 
ing catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I 
perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the 
fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left 
the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite 
temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he 
was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and 
nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country 
for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare, I pre- 
sume he soon sunk into oblivion," 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



137 



" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man 
that the Kterature of his period has experienced a duration 
beyond the ordinary term of EngHsh Uterature. There arise 
authors now and then, who' seem proof against the mutability 
of language, because they have rooted themselves in the un- 
changing principles of human nature. They are like gigantic 
trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating though the mere 
surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the 
overflowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, 
and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 
case with Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroach- 
ments of time, retaining in modern use the language and 
literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indiffer- 
ent author merely from having flourished in his vicinity. 
But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint 
of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of com- 
mentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost 
bury the noble plant that upholds them." 

Here the httle quarto began to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of 
laughter that had well nigh choked him by reason of his ex- 
cessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he 
could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so you would per- 
suade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated 
by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man without learning ! by 
a poet ! forsooth — a poet ! " And here he wheezed forth 
another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- 
ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not 
to give up my point. 

" Yes," resumed I positively, " a poet ; for of all writers 
he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write 
from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart 



138 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

will always understand him, He is the faithful portrayer of 
Nature, whose features are always the same, and always inter- 
esting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their 
pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts ex- 
panded into tediousness. But with the true poet every 
thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by 
everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing 
before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the 
aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the 
wealth of the language — its family jewels, which are thus 
transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may 
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be 
renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and 
intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look 
back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys 
of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical con- 
troversies ! What bogs of theological speculations ! What 
dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we 
behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on 
their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pure light of 
poetical intelligence from age to age." * 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door 
caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to 

Thorow earth, and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey combe that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drops from poet's head . 
Which doth surmount our common talke, 
iarre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



sicetcb-book: op geoffrey cra yon, gent. 13^ 

inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to 
have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little 
tome was silent ; the clasps were closed ; and it looked per- 
fectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to 
the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to 
draw it into further conversation, but in vain : and whether 
all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it 
was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, 
I have never, to this moment, been able to discover. 



140 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 



RURAL FUNERALS. 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered : even so 
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural 
life u^hich still linger in some parts of England, are those of 
strewing flowers before the funerals and planting them at the 
graves of departed friends. There, it is said, are the remains 
of some of the rites of the primitive church \ but they are of 
still higher antiquity, having been observed among the 
Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their 
writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes of un- 
lettered affection, originating long before art had tasked it- 
self to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monu- 
ment. They are now only to be met with in the most dis- 
tant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and 
innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out 
all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the 
corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one 
of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 

White his shroud as the mountain snow, 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed 
in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of 



^k'ETcri-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 141 

a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of 
white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl, 
nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung 
up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. 
These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in im- 
itation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of 
white gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity 
of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received 
in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried 
to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns ; a kind of 
triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have finished 
their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, 
I am uiformed, is observed in some of the northern counties, 
particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though 
melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely 
country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge 
swelling from a distance and to see the train slowly moving 
along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The Daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the 
passing funeral, in these sequestered places ; for such spec- 
tacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of Nature, sink 
deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he 
pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then follows silently 
in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for 
a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of respect 
to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vien of melancholy which runs through the 
English character, and gives it some of its most touching 



1 4^ WORK'S OF IJ^A SHTNG TO IV IR VINd. 

and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people 
for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, 
whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that 
some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas 
Overbury, describing the "faire and happy milkmaid," ob- 
serves, " thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die 
in the spring time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her 
winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the 
feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude 
about the grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont 
and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind de- 
scribing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl. 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and made her maids 
Bluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally 
prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep 
the turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens 
and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his 
Sylva, " with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the 
life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to 
those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonor, 
rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely 
rare in England ; but it may still be met wdth in the church- 
yards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I 
recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, 
which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I 
have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral 
of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants 
had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was 
interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in 
the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT. 1 43 

the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and 
might be seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, 
others quite perished. They were afterwards to be sup- 
planted by holly, rosemary, and others evergreens ; which on 
some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed 
the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- 
rangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in it 
truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the 
lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet 
flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, 
and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of 
our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, 
making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns 
and crosses." The nature and color of the flowers, and of the 
ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular 
reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were 
expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, 
entitled " Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the 
decorations he intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

By Art and Nature's skill. 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good will. 

And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of 
her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons 
were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The 



144 



Works of Washington irving. 



red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as 
had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general 
were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us 
that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near 
his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens 
yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweet- 
hearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in 
his Brittania : " Here is also a certain custom, observed time 
out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially 
by the young men and maids who have lost their loves \ so 
that this churchyard is now full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, 
emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the 
yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of 
the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas 
Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- 
duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of 
females who have been disappointed in love. 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew. 
Maidens willow branches wear. 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle earth. 

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sen- 
timent, and the unaffected elegance of thought, which pervaded 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



14.5 



the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an 
especial precaution that none but sweet- scented evergreens 
and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have 
been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind 
from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and 
to associate the memory of the deceasejd with the most deli- 
cate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal pro- 
cess going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred 
dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating j 
and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those 
refined associations which it awakened when blooming before 
us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes 
of his virgin sister. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring. 

Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fra- 
grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 
***** 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers I 

May virgins, when they come to mourn 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thy ui 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and 
delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already 
quoted more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain 
from giving a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should 



146 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

appear trite, which illustrates the emblematiGal meaning oiten 
conveyed in these floral tributes, and at the same time pos- 
sesses that magic of language and appositeness of imagery 
for which he stands pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these 
prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most 
costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while 
the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection 
is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under 
the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold 
conceits of sculptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant 
and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists 
only in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it 
seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of culti- 
vated society. In proportion as people grow polite, they cease 
to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to 
check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and 
to supply its most affecting and picturesque usages, by studied 
form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more 
stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made 
up of show and gloomy parade : mourning carriages, mourning 
liorses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make 
a mockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy 
Taylor, "and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the 
neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, 
and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the 
gay and crowded city is soon forgotten : the hurrying succes- 
sion of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him from out 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON-, GENT. 147 

minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are 
incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are sol- 
emnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in 
the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uni- 
formity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every 
ear j it steals with its pervading melancholy over hill and 
vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, 
perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once en- 
joyed them j who was the companion of our most retired walks, 
and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is asso- 
ciated with every charm of Nature : we hear his voice in the 
echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts 
the grove which he once frequented ; we think of him in the 
wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the 
valley. In the freshness of joyous morning we remember his 
beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening 
returns, with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we 
call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet- 
souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore. 

For him the tear be duly shed. 
Beloved, till life can charm no more, 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased 
in the country, is, that the grave is more immediately in sights 
of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; it 
meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercise 
of devotion j they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the 
mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to 
turn aside from present pleasures and loves, and to sit down 
among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales, 
the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased 
friends for several Sundays after the interment ; and where 
the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still prac* 
tised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other 
festivals, when the season brings the companion of former 



148 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed 
by the nearest relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings 
are employed, and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be 
deemed an insult to offer compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as 
it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. 
The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that 
the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the 
instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter 
must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence 
of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live 
on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense lan- 
guish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn 
with shuddering and disgust from the dismal precincts of the 
tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises puri- 
fied from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, 
to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal— 
every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it 
a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over 
in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget 
the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms though 
every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would 
willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to re- 
. member be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, 
would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even 
when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most 
loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must 
be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the love which survives the 
tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its 
woes, it has likewise its delights j and when the overwhelming 
burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection — ■ 
when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the 
present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into 
pensive meditcition on all that it was in the days of its Ipv^lv 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT, i^g 

ness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the 
bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour 
of gloom ; yet who would exchange it even for the song of 
pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from 
the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the 
dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living. 
Oh, the grave ! — the grave !— It buries every error — covers 
every defect — extinguishes every resentment ! From its peace- 
ful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollec- 
tions. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy 
and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have 
warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering be- 
fore him ? 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medita- 
tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- 
ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily inter- 
course of intimacy ; — there it is that we dwell upon the tender- 
ness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The 
bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attend- 
ance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of 
expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh ! how 
thrilling ! — pressure of the hand. The last fond look of th^ 
glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of exist- 
ence. The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to 
give one more assurance of affection ! 

Ay, go to the grave of butied love, and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that de- 
parted being, who can never — never — never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the 
soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; 
— if thou art a husband, and has-t ever caused the fond bosom 
that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one 
moment of thy kindness or thy truth— if thou art ^ friend, and 



I50 



WOJ^KS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



hast ever wronged, in thought, word or deed, the spirit that 
generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover and hast ever 
given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies 
cold and still beneath th}^ feet; then be sure that every unkind 
look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come 
thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at 
thy soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and 
repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and poui 
the unavailing tear — more deep, more bitter, because unheard 
and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties 
of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou 
canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; — but 
take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction 
over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec- 
tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to 
give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peas 
antry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illus 
trative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to 
another paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled 
insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an 
apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after 
they have been amply and learnedly investigated in other 
works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- 
tom of adorning graves with flowers, prevails in other countries 
besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, 
and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is 
then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affecta- 
tion. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of mon- 
uments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, with 
seats placed among bowers of green-house plants ; and that 
the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers of 
the season. He gives a casual picture of final piety, which I 
cannot but describe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delight- 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON', GENT. 1 5 1 

ful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was 
at Berlin," says he, *' I followed the celebrated Iffland to the 
grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real 
feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was at- 
tracted by a young woman who stood on a mound of earth, 
newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from 
the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; 
and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a mon- 
ument more striking than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I 
once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. I«t was at 
the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the lake 
of Luzerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the cap- 
ital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the 
lake, and accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. The 
whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fight- 
ing men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out, as 
it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its terri- 
tory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest 
of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer 
age. It had a small church, with a burying ground adjoining. 
At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood or 
iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but 
evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the 
crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others 
fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at 
the scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- 
tion, for these were the beautiful, but unaffected offerings of 
the heart, which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and 
more populous place, I should have suspected them to have 
been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; 
but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there 
was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question 
whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining 
a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was ful- 
filling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and 
that he was practically a poet. 



152 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 

Falstaff. 

During a journey that I once made through the Nether- 
lands. I had arrived one evening at the Fomme a' Or^ the, 
principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the 
hour of the table d'hote^ so that I was obliged to make a 
solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The 
weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a great 
gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had the 
prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible 
means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested 
something to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of 
his household, a Dutch family bible, an almanac in the same 
language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat 
dozing over one of the latter, reading old news and stale criti- 
cisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter 
which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that 
has travelled on the Continent must know how favorite a 
resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and infe- 
rjor order of travellers; particularly in that equivocal kind 
of weather when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. 
I threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the 
kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so 
merry. It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived 
some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual atten- 
dants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated around a great 
burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, 
at which they were worshipping. It was covered with various 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, jr, 

kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which 
steamed and .hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp 
threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many 
odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illu- 
mined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote 
corners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the 
broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from 
well-scoured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. 
A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her 
ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was 
presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most 
of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their 
mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy 
Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and Mrge whiskers, was 
giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each of which 
there was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious 
laughter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true lib- 
erty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious 
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened 
to a variety of travellers' tales, some very extravagant, and 
most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my 
treacherous memory, except one, which I will endeavor to 
relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the 
manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and appear- 
ance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had 
the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished 
green travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and 
a pair of overalls with buttons from the hips to the ankles. 
He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, 
aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was 
light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling- 
cap, stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more 
than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his au- 
ditors \ and pausedj now and then, to replenish his pipe \ at 



1 5 4 WORTHS OF WASHING TON IR VING, 

which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, 
for the buxom kitchen maid. 

I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a 
huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curi- 
ously twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecu7ne de mer^ 
decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked 
on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he 
related the following story : 



SKETCII'BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, CEN2\ i^^ 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A traveller's tale.* 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-steel has made his bed ! 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-steel. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a 
wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that Hes not far 
from the confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, 
many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Land- 
short. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
among beech trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its 
old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look 
down upon a neighboring country. 

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Kat- 
zenellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the property, and 
all the pride, of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposi- 
tion of his predecessors had much impaired the family pos- 
sessions, yet the Baron still endeavored to keep up some show 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive 
that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little 
French anecdote, of a circumstance said to have taken place in Paris. 

t /. <r., Cat's Elbow — the name of a family of those parts, and very 
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in 
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 



1^6 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVmG. 

of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German 
nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old 
castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and 
had built more convenient residences in the valleys ; still the 
Baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cher- 
ishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds ; so 
that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, 
on account of disputes that had happened between their great- 
great-grandfathers. 

The Baron had but one 'child, a daughter ; but Nature, 
when she grants but one child, always compensates by making 
it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. 
All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her fa- 
ther that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; 
and who should know better than they ? She had, moreover, 
been brought up with great care, under the superintendence 
of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early 
life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all 
the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a 
fine lady. Under their instructions, she became a miracle of 
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could 
embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of 
the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in their 
countenances, that they looked like so many souls in purga- 
tory. She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled 
her way through several church legends, and almost all the 
chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
considerable proficiency in writing, could sign her own name 
without missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could 
read it without spectacles. She excelled in making little good- 
for-nothing lady-like knicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in 
the most abstruse dancing of the day ; played a number of 
airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads 
of the Minnie-lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 



SKETCiT-BOOJC OF GEOFFREY CRA YON; GENT. 15^ 

guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for 
there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decor- 
ous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered 
out of their sight ; never went beyond the domains of the 
castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched ; had con- 
tinual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit 
obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! she was taught to hold 
them at such distance and distrust, that, unless properly au- 
thorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the hand- 
somest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even dying at 
her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the 
world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every 
hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely woman- 
hood under the protection of those immaculate spinsters like 
a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts 
looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that 
though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, 
yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the 
heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be 
provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
one, for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate dis- 
position common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully at- 
tached to the Baron, and took every possible occasion to come 
in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were 
commemorated by these good people at the Baron's expense ; 
and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare 
that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family 
meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell 



158 WOJiJCS OP WASHmCTON IRVING. 

long stories about the stark old warriors whose portraits 
looked grimly down from the walls around, and he found no 
listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was 
much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those 
supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in 
Germany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceeded his 
own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and 
mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated 
for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Vo n Landshort, 
the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little ter- 
ritory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he 
was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great 
family-gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost im- 
portance : — it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the 
Baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on be- 
tween the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the 
dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The 
preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The 
young people were betrothed without seeing each other, and 
the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army 
for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's 
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from 
him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, 
mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to 
arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with 
uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, 
and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her 
dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest 
to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could 
desire ; and the flutter of her expectation heightened the lus- 
tre of her charms. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON; GENT. 1^9 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, th$ eye now and then lost in reverie, 
all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little 
heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her ; for 
maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this 
nature : they were giving her a world of staid counsel how to 
deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive 
the expected lover. 

The Baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, 
in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally a fuming, 
bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all 
the world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of 
the castle, with an air of infinite anxiety, he continually called 
the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent, 
and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless 
and importunate as a blue-bottle fly of a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed ; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen j the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded 
up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein, and even the 
great Heidelburgh tun had been laid under contribution. 
Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
Saus und Brans in the true spirit of German hospitality — but 
the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled 
after hour. The sun that had poured his downward rays 
upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed 
along the summits of the mountains. The Baron mounted 
the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of catching 
a distant sight of the Count and his attendants. Once he 
thought he beheld them \ the sound of horns came floating 
from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes : a num- 
ber of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along 
the road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the 
mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by 
in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the 



i6o WORKS OP WASHliSfCTO. IRVINO. 

view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and then 
a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of 
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a dif- 
ferent part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing 
his route in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels 
toward matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble 
and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is 
waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner, at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful com- 
panion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the 
frontiers; Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest 
hands and worthiest hearts of German chivalry, who was now 
returning from the army. His father's castle was not far dis- 
tant from the fortress of Landshort, although a hereditary 
feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each 
other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the 
Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a 
young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms 
he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; and 
that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg 
at an early hour, the Count having given directions for his 
retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures ; but the Count was apt to be 
a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of 
his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and 
thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of 
Germany have always been as much infested with robbers as 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. i6i 

its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former v/ere 
particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers 
wandering about the country. It will not appear extraor- 
dinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang 
of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended 
themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when 
the Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of 
them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received a 
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back 
to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neigh- 
boring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering 
to both soul and body. But half of his skill was superfluous ; 
the moments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal 
cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. 
Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most 
punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that 
this mission should be speedily and courteously executed. 
"Unless this is done," said he, " I shall not sleep quietly in 
my grave ! " He repeated these last words with peculiar 
solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted 
no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to 
calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave 
him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it 
in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved 
about his bride — his engagements — his plighted word; or- 
dered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, 
and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the 
awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, 
and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an un- 
bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity 
with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain 
whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed 
II 



,62 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the 
world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there 
was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character, 
that made him fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements 
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solem- 
nities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of 
Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives and the 
mourning retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their 
guests, and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy 
little Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron 
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which 
had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be post- 
poned. The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an 
agony ; and the whole household had the look of a garrison 
that had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged 
reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence 
of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the 
gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another 
long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, 
and was answered by the warder from the walls. The Baron 
hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on 
a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beam- 
ing, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The 
Baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this 
simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, 
and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect 
for the important occasion, and the important family with 
which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, 
with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impa- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 1^3 

tience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you 
thus unseasonably — " 

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compli- 
ments and greetings j for, to tell the truth, he prided himself 
upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, 
once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain ; so 
he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time 
the Baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner 
court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to 
speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance 
of the female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking 
and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one 
entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the 
gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden 
aunts whispered something in her ear j she made an effort 
to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy 
glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again 
to the ground. The words died away; but there was a 
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of 
the cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. 
It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly 
predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with 
so gallant a cavalier. 

The iate hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time 
for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all 
particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to 
the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around 
the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the 
house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had 
gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked croslets, splin- 
tered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled 
with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the wolf, and 
the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among crossbows and 



1 64 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately 
over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low 
tone, that could not be overheard — for the language of love 
is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it can- 
not catch the softest whisper of the lover ? There was a 
mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner that appeared 
to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color 
came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now 
and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye 
-was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his 
romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender hap- 
piness. It was evident that the young couple were com- 
pletely enamoured. The aunts, who were deeply versed in 
the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in 
love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend 
upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron told his best 
and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or 
with such great effect. If there was anything marvellous, 
his auditors were lost in astonishment : and if anything 
facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. 
The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified 
to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, how- 
ever, by a bumper of excellent Hoch-heimer ; and even a dull 
joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is 
irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and 
keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar 
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that 
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song 
or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
hold up their fans. 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE V CRA VOAT, GENT. 165 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a 
most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance 
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, 
and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes seemed 
only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was 
lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- 
less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. 
His conversation with the bride became more and more earn- 
est and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over 
the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her 
tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the 
bridegroom j their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances 
were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious 
shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and 
less frequent : there were dreary pauses in the conversation 
which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatu- 
ral legends. One dismal story produced another still more 
dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies 
into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that 
carried away the fair Leonora — a dreadful, but true story, 
which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read 
and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- 
tion. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and as 
the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 
seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment 
the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a 
solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. 
The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? why, 
everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully, and mysteriously ; 
" I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night ! " 



1 66 WORKS OF WASHINGTON" IRVING, 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which 
it was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him ; but 
he ralHed his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 
The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
offer ; and waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified 
— the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 

The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the 
castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and 
snorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal, 
whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the 
stranger paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone 
of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepul- 
chral. " Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to 
you the reason of my going, I have a solemn, an indispen- 
sable engagement — " 

*' Why," said the Baron, "cannot you send some one in 
your place ? " 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — 
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

"Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity 
•' my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms 
expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
— my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried 
— the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the 
whistling of the night-blast. 

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- 
tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- 
right j others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with 
a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the 
wild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural 



r^^'" ' 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 167 

beings; with which the good people of Germany have been so 
grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor 
relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive 
evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of 
the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. 
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole com- 
pany, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as 
little better than an infidel \ so that he was fain to abjure his 
heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the 
true believers. 

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of 
regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young 
Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The 
Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests who had 
come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him 
in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected 
in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their 
shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer 
than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, 
by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the 
widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband 
before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if 
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must 
have been the living man } She filled the house with lamenta- 
tions. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she 
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, 
who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one 
of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just 
been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in 
the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and over- 
looked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at 
the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves 
of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just 



1 68 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

told midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the 
garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to 
the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the 
trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon 
the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre 
Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her 
ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and 
had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. 
When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most sooth- 
ing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to 
the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of 
her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the sem- 
blance of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is 
but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, 
yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is con- 
soling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that 
chamber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and de- 
clared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the 
castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; 
but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story 
of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy 
pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber 
over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this 
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the mar- 
vellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a fright 
f ul story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as 
a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to 
herself for a whole week ; when she was suddenly absolved 
from all farther restraint, by intelligence brought to the break- 
fast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be 
found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in 
—the window was open — and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 169 

was received, can only be imagined by those who have wit- 
nessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause 
among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a mo- 
ment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the 
aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands 
and shrieked out, " the goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away 
by the goblin ! " 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had 
heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on 
his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
were struck with the direful probability; for events of the 
kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authen- 
ticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron ! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a mem- 
ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daugh- 
ter had either been wrapt away to the grave, or he was to 
have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance, a 
troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely 
bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were 
ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen 
of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on his 
jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his 
steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought 
to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approach- 
ing the castle, mounted on a palfrey attended by a cavalier 
on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her 
horse, and falling at the Baron's feet embraced his knees. It 
was his lost daughter, and her companion — the Spectre Bride- 
groom ! The Baron was astounded. He looked at his daugh- 
ter, then at the Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of 
his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his 
appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress 



lyo 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. 
He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- 
nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in 
his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no 
goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. 
He related his adventure with the young count. He told how 
he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings^ 
but that the eloquence of the Baron had interrupted him in 
every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had 
completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near 
her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he 
had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent re- 
treat, until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccen- 
tric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of" the family, he 
had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden 
beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — had won — 
had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, had wedded the 
fair. 

Under any other circumstances, the Baron would have 
been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and 
devoutly obstinate in all family feuds j but he loved his daugh- 
ter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still 
alive ; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, 
thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it 
must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his 
notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed 
upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends 
present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every 
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was 
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron 
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the 
castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this 
new member of the family with loving kindness j he was so 



iprF*^'.''' 



SKETCtT-SOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



171 



gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were 
somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion, 
and passive obedience, should be so badly exemplified, but 
attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows 
grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her 
marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever 
seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed per- 
fectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood 
— and so the story ends. 



172 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When I behold, with deep astonishment. 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stony monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenseless majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon. 
Could not content nor quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's E_pigrams, by T. B. 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and even- 
ing almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the de- 
cline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about 
Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the 
season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and as 
I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the 
regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of 
former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost sub- 
terranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular 
perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue 



SKETCH-BOOk: OF GEOFFREY CkAVOK GENT, 



173 



I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old 
verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, 
and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. 

The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic 
remains, prepares the mind ^or its solemn contemplation. 
The cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclusion 
of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and 
crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over 
the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the 
death's heads, and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches 
of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; the 
roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy 
beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations 
of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in 
its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters j beaming upon a scanty plot of grass 
in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage 
with a kind of dusty splendor. From between the arcades, 
the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a passing cloud ; 
and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into 
the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavor- 
ing to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which 
formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eyes were attracted 
to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away 
by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies 
of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; 
the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in 
later times; (Vi talis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. 
Abbas. 1 1 14, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained 
some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, 
thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling 
no tale but that such beings had been and had perished ; 
teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes 



1^4 Works of was Him Ton ir Vimo. 

still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. 
A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, 
and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I 
was yet looking down upon the gravestones, I was roused by 
the sound of the Abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to 
buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost start- 
ling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among 
the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a 
billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the in- 
terior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults 
of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered 
columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from 
them to such an amazing height ; and man wandering about 
their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his 
own handy-work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast 
edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the 
hallowed silence of the tomb j while every footfall whispers 
along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making 
us more sensible of the quiet vv^e have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- 
ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated 
bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history 
with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet 
it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, 
to see how they are crowded together, and justled in the dust ; 
what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook— a 
gloomy corner— a little portion of earth, to those whom, when 
alive, kingdoms could not satisfy : and how many shapes, and 
. forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of 
the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short 
years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's 
thought and admiration. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 175 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an 
end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 
monuments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men 
afford no striking themes for a sculptor. Shakspeare and 
Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but the 
greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memo- 
rials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling 
takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with 
which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and 
the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of 
friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of 
companionship between the author and the reader. Other men 
are known to posterity only through the medium of history, 
which is continually growing faint and obscure j but the in- 
tercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, 
active^ and immediate. He has lived for them more than for 
himself ; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut 
himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the 
more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. 
Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been pur- 
chased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the dili- 
gent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grate- 
ful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of 
empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of 
wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of lan- 
guage. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 
I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are 
now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At 
every turn, I met with some illustrious name, or the cogni- 
zance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches 
glimpses of quaint effigies : some kneeling in niches, as if in 



1 7 6 Works of Washing ton in viN(^. 

devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously 
pressed together ; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; 
prelates, with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and 
coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this 
scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still 
and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion 
of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one 
arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon 
the breast ; the face was almost covered by the morion ; the 
legs were crossed in token of the warrior's having been en- 
gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of 
one of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled 
religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connect- 
ing link between fact and fiction — between the history and 
the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in 
the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with 
rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport 
with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; 
and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with 
the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chival- 
rous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
wars for the Sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times 
utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of cus- 
toms and manners with which ours have no affinity. They 
are like objects from some strange and distant land of which 
we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our con- 
ceptions are vague and visionary. There is something ex- 
tremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, 
extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication 
of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more im- 
pressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over- 
wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on 
modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the 



:,,Mi^^imm. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



^11 



superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There 
was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and 
yet saying them proudly : and I do not know an epitaph that 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honor- 
able lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that 
*' all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a monu- 
ment which is among the most renowned achievements of 
modern art j but which, to me, appears horrible rather than 
sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. 
The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open 
its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. 
The shroud is falling from his fieshless frame as he launches 
his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted hus- 
band's arms, who strives, with varin and frantic effort, to avert 
the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit ; 
we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph, burst- 
ing from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why should 
we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to 
spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave 
should be surrounded by every thing that might inspire ten- 
derness and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the 
living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, 
but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
from without occasionally reaches the ear : — the rumbling of 
the passing equipage j the murmur of the multitude ; or per- 
haps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking 
with the deathlike repose around ; and it has a strange effect 
upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurry- 
ing along and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and 
from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away \ 
the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and 
less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to even- 

12 



lyg WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ing prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their 
white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I 
stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A 
flight of steps leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but 
magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately 
wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluc- 
tant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gor- 
geous of sepulchres. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- 
tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The 
very walls are wrought into universal ornament, encrusted 
with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the 
statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and 
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of 
a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
• Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the 
grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna- 
■cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the 
knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are 
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, 
and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, 
with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this 
grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his 
effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 
and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen 
railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and 
aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust 
and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneli- 
ness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former 
throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls 



s-^m^^mt. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 179 

of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty 
but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my 
imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright 
with the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with the 
splendor of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the 
tread of many feet, and the hum of an admiring multitude. 
All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again 
upon the place j interrupted only by the casual chirping of 
birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built 
their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of soli- 
tariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on 
the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide 
about the world \ some tossing upon distant seas ; some under 
arms in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of 
courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more distinc- 
tion in this mansion of= shadowy honors — the melancholy 
reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave, which brings 
down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min- 
gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is th6 
sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of 
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in 
the day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate 
of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The 
walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs 
of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 
lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows 
darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep 
shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and 
weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the 
tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing 
her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wander- 
ing, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving 
in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 



j8o works of WASHINGTON IRVING. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 
I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the 
choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The 
stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually pre- 
vailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the 
place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ Durst upon 
tbe ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and 
rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their 
volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With 
what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe 
their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make 
the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumphant 
acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant 
notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and 
the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of 
melody ; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. 
Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, com- 
pressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. 
What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! 
It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast 
pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the 
senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full 
jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul 
seems rapt away, and floated upwards on this swelling tide of 
harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a 
strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of 
evening were gradually thickening around me ; the monu- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. i8i 

ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the dis- 
tant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I arose, and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, 
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, 
and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take 
from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close 
around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. 
From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded 
with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states- 
men, lie mouldering in " their beds of darkness." Close by 
me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 
in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene 
seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to pro- 
duce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the 
beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it 
was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. 
Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had 
been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to 
show it, eveci in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the 
neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ? how soon 
that crown which encircles its brow must pass away ; and it 
must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be 
trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude t 
For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanc- 
tuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are 
base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead 
the abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to 
the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been 
broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral orna- 
ments j the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the im- 
perious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies head- 
less. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false 



l82 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered j 
some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and insult — all 
more or less outraged and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me j the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 
twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. 
The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble fig- 
ures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncer- 
tain light j the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the 
cold breath of the grave j and even the distant footfall of a 
verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange 
and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, 
and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door 
closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole build- 
ing with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though 
I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, 
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury 
of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emp- 
tiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ? It is, indeed 
the empire of Death ; his great shadowy palace ; where he sits 
in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading 
dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How 
idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is 
ever silently turning over his pages \ we are too much en- 
grossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters 
and anecdotes that give interest to the past ; and each age is 
a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of 
to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; 
and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. 
" Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in 
our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried 



ijkd^ 



^^1WvjP,y^-t-?.',i^,5if;^ir;Tif ,77.15*^1^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 183 

in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes 
clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders 
from the tablet j the statue falls from the pedestal. Col-umns, 
arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand — and their 
epitaphs, but characters written in the dust t What is the 
security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The 
remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the 
wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of 
a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or 
time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures 
wounds, and Pharoah is sold for balsams." * 

What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above 
me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time 
must come when its gilded vaults which now spring so loftily, 
shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the 
sound of melody and praise, the winds shall whistle through 
the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower 
— when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy 
mansions of death ; and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; 
and the fox-glove hand its blossoms about the nameless urn, 
as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away \ his 
name passes from recollection j his history is a tale that is told, 
and his very monument becomes a ruin. 

* Sir Thomas Brown. 



i84 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVJNG, 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of 

his good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing 

I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall. 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delight- 
ful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holi- 
day customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of 
life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and 
believed it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring 
with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, 
perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was 
nore homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret 
!o say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being 
i!;radually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by 
modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of 
Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts 
of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and 
partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poe- 
try, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural 
game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 185 

of its themes — as the ivy winds it rich foliage about the Gothic 
arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, 
by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, 
embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- 
ment. The services of the church about this season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring : they dwell on the beautiful story 
of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accom- 
panied its announcement ; they gradually increase in fervor 
and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break 
forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and 
good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music 
on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the peal- 
ing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and 
filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of 
yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- 
ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the 
season for gathering together of family connections, and draw- 
ing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the 
cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually 
operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children of a 
family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, 
that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and 
loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year, that 
gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, 
we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beau- 
ties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate them- 
selves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad and 
everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, 
the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of 



i86 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of 
refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, delicious blue and 
its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite 
delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in 
the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, 
and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desola- 
tion of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome 
nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our 
feeUngs also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly 
disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts 
are more concentrated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. 
We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and 
are brought more closely together by dependence on each 
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw 
our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie 
in the quiet recesses of our bosoms j and which, when resorted 
to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on enter- 
ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening 
fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sun- 
shine through the room, and lights up each countenance into 
a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality 
expand into a broader and more cordial smile— where is the 
shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent— than by the winter 
fireside ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through 
the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, 
and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful 
than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which 
we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene 
of domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the still- 
ness of country life ; and they were in former days particularly 
observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas. It 



SKE TCir-B OK OF GFOPFkE Y CRA ] 'ON, GENT. j % 7 

is inspiring to read even the dry details wliich some antiqua- 
ries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, 
the complete abandonment to mirth and good fellowship, with 
which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open 
every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant 
and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles 
and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas 
carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of 
hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive 
season with green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful 
fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger 
to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the 
hearth beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and 
oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement, is 
the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. 
It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited 
reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down so- 
ciety into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less 
characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials 
of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris 
sack of old Falstaif, are become matters of speculation and 
dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full 
of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but 
heartily and vigorously : times wild and picturesque, which 
have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama 
with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. 
The world has become more worldl3^ There is more of dissi- 
pation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a 
broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of 
those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through 
the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more 
enlightened . and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of 
its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest 
fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted 



wmm 



i8S WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have 
passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor- 
houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with 
the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried 
parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay 
drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite friends and kindred — the presents of good cheer 
passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners 
of kind feelings — the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness — all these have the 
most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kind- 
ling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, 
rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches 
of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I 
have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour 
" when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a 
hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joy- 
ous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial 
choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. How 
delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these 
moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! The 
very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound 
repose of the country, " telling the nightwatches to his feathery 
dames," was thought by the common people to announce the 
approach of the sacred festival : 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time." 



lifw^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GEMT. 189 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, 
what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season 
of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling not merely the 
fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in 
the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to mem- 
ory beyond the sterild waste of years, and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates 
the drooping spirit— as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft 
the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the 
desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land—though for 
me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open 
its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely 
happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every 
countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent 
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a su- 
preme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churl- 
ishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, 
and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when 
all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excite- 
ment and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and 
social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry 
Christmas, 



290 t^ORJ^S OP WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 

Omne bene 
Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi 
Venit hora 
Absque mori 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper, I have made some general obser- 
vations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempt- 
ed to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed 
in the country; in perusing which, I would most courteously 
invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to 
put on that genuine holiday spirit, which is tolerant of folly 
and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for 
a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day pre- 
ceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and 
out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally 
bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christ- 
mas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and 
baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares hung dangling 
their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant 
friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked 
school-boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom 
health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children 
of his country. They were returning Rome for the holidays, 
hi high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 191 

It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the 
little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform 
during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thral- 
dom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of the 
anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, 
down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give 
their sisters, by the presents with which their pockets were 
crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed to look for- 
ward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I 
found to be a pony, and according to their talk, possessed of 
more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. 
How he could trot ! how he could rua ! and then such leaps as 
he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole country 
that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but 
notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of 
the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had 
a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole 
of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and 
business ; but he is particularly so during this season, having 
so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great 
interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be 
unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 
and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a man- 
ner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent 
throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage- 
coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any 
other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 
vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still farther 



192 WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like 
a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears 
a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of colored hand- 
kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at 
the bosom \ and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers 
in his button-hole, the present, most probably, of some enam- 
oured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright 
colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, 
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up 
ills legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he 
lias a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and 
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there 
is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which 
is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great con- 
sequence and consideration along the road ; has frequent con- 
ferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a 
man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a 
good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The 
moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws 
down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the 
cattle to the care of the hostler j his duty being merely to drive 
them from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands 
are thrust in the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the 
inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he 
is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, 
stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that 
infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of 
odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings erf 
the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look 
up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo 
his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, 
above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every 
ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in 
the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo 
Coachey, 



SKETCH-BOOK 01^ GEOPFREY CRAYON, GENT, 193 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A Stage-Coach, 
however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the en- 
trance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and handboxes to se- 
■ cure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take 
leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, 
the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute ; 
sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a 
small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; and 
sometimes with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to 
some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid, an odd-shaped 
billetdoux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles ' 
through the village, everyone runs to the window, and you 
have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and bloom- 
ing giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of 
village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for 
the important purpose of seeing company pass : but the sagest 
knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls 
by j the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing ham- 
mers, and suffe^ the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre 
in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the 
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to 
heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky- 
smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more 
than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if 
everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, 
and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in 
the villages ; the grocers, butchers, and fruiterers' shops 
were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring 
briskly about, putting their dwellings in order \ and the glossy 



194 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began tO appear 
at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's ac- 
count of Christmas preparations. " Now capons and hens, 
besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — 
must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of people will 
not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and 
honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must 
music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get 
them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid 
leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets 
a pair of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of 
Holly and Iv}'-, whether master or dame wears the breeches. 
Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not lack 
wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused, from this fit of luxurious meditation by a 
shout from my little travelling companions. They had been 
looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recog- 
nizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and 
now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! and 
there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happj 
little rogues, clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane, there was an old sober-looking ser- 
vant in Uvery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a 
superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a 
little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, 
who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dreaming of 
the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the 
pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam 
was the great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, 
and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they 
should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- 
ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's 
hands \ both talking at once and overpowering him with ques- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, ig^ 

tions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after 
them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure 
or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of those 
days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, 
and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped 
a few moments afterwards, to water the horses ; and on resum- 
ing our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat 
country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and 
two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, 
with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage 
road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witness- 
ing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my 
>ight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- 
mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway 
of the inn, I saw, on one side, the light of a rousing kitchen 
fire beaming through a window. I entered, and admired for 
the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and 
broad honest enjoyment, the picture of an English inn. It 
was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin 
vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a 
Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were 
suspended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless 
clanking beside the fire-place, and a clock ticked in one cor- 
ner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of 
the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands, 
upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed moun- 
ting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to 
attack this -stout repast, whilst others sat smoking and gossip- 
ing over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the 
fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and for- 
wards, under the directions of a bustling landlady ; but still 
seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and 
have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The 
scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the 
comforts of mid-winter ; 



jgS WORKS OP WASHINGTON IRVING- 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale and now a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn, when a post-chaise drove 
up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the 
light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which 
I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, 
when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank 
Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, with 
whom I had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting 
was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow- 
traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To 
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn, was im- 
possible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time and 
was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I 
should give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a 
few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary 
Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you 
of a hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." 
His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation 
I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment, had 
made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, 
therefore, at once, with his invitation ; the chaise drove up to 
the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to tho 
family mansion of the Bracebridges. 

* Poor Robin's Almanack^ 1694. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. ,g^ 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; * 

Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew-time 

To the next prime. Cartwright. 



It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; 
our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post- 
boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his 
horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," 
said my companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time 
for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' 
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the 
old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of 
old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what 
you will rarely meet with now-a-days in its purity, — the old 
English country gentleman j for our men of fortune spend so 
much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much 
into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient 
rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, 
from early years, took honest Peacham * for his text-book, in- 
stead of Chesterfield j he determined in his own mind, that 
there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable 
than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, 

* Peacham'si Complete (Jentleman, 1632, 



I g8 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is 
a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games 
and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, 
ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. In- 
deed, his favorite range of reading is among the authors who 
flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, wrote 
and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their suc- 
cessors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been 
born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and 
had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some 
distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the 
country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most 
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of 
indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. 
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighbor- 
hood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he 
is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the 
appellation of ' The 'Squire ; ' a title which has been ac- 
corded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I 
think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old 
father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that might 
otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought 
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns 
that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. 
Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark 
fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed gar- 
risoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. 
As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of 
a little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peep- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, igg 

ing from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtsey- 
ing forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house, 
keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could not 
do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story 
in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk 
through the park to the Hall, which was at no great distance, 
while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through 
a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which 
the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a 
cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight 
covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moon- 
beams caught a frosty crystal j and at a distance might be 
seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from the low 
grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked round him with transport : — " How 
often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on re- 
..urning home on school vacations ! How often have I played 
ander these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial rever- 
ence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us 
in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting 
our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. 
He used to direct and superintend our games with the strict- 
ness that some parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the old English games 
according to their original form ; and consulted old books for 
precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ; ' yet, I 
assure you, there never was pedantry so delightful. It was 
the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children 
feel that home was the happiest place in the world, and I 
value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts 
a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs ot 
all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and 
curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the por- 



200 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

ter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding open- 
mouthed across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of 
the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. 
One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone- 
shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from 
among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes 
of glass glittered with the moon-beams. The rest of the 
house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, 
having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by 
one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the 
Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in 
the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrub- 
beries, raised terraces, and heavy stone ballustrades, orna- 
mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. 
The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to pre. 
serve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He ad^ 
mired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnifi^ 
cence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family 
style. The boasted imitation of nature and modern garden- 
ing had sprung up with modern republican notions, but did 
not suit a monarchical government — it smacked of the level- 
ling system. I could not help smiling at this introduction of 
politics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehen- 
sion that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in 
his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was almost 
the only instance in which he had ever heard his father med- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 201 

die with politics ; and he believed he had got this notion from 
a member of Parliament, who once passed a few weeks with 
him. The 'Squire was glad of any argument to defend his 
clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occa- 
sionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end 
of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from 
the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was per- 
mitted, and even encouraged, by the 'Squire, throughout the 
twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing was done con- 
formably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games 
of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the 
white loaf, bob-apple, and snap-dragon ; the Yule clog, and 
Christmas candle, were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, 
with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all 
the pretty house-maids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On 
our arrival being announced, the 'Squire came out to receive 
us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young officer 
in the army, home on leave of absence ; the other an Oxon- 
ian, just from the university. The 'Squire was a fine healthy- 
looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round 
an open florid countenance ; in which a physiognomist, with 
the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might 
discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; as the 
evening was far advanced, the 'Squire would not permit us to 
change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the 
company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. 
It was composed of different branches of a numerous family 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens, at Christ- 
mas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, 
plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
plucked, the privilege cease®. 



202 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

eonnection, where there were the usual proportions of old 
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 
spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, 
and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were vari- 
ously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others con- 
versing round the fire-place j at one end of the hall was a 
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a 
more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry 
game j and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, 
and tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces of a troop of 
little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, 
had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the 'Squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy project- 
ing fire-place was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, 
standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a 
helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair 
of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as 
hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in 
the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, 
and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the 
cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles 
of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor 
had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mix- 
ture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fire-place, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of 
which was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and send- 
ing forth a vast volume of light and heat ; this I understood 
was the yule clog, which the 'Squire was particular in having 
brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to 
ancient custom.* 

* T\ityule dog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 



Pf«»f«/«(i7'frf.'iW'*;>' •: 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 203 

It was really delightful to see the old 'Squire, seated in 
his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his 
ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, 
beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very 
dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his posi- 
tion and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, 
wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to 
sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an 
emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which can- 
not be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the 
stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many 
minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, 
before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one 
of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family por- 
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside the accustomed 
lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 

brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the 
fire-place, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, 
there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was 
accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages, the only light 
was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yule clog was to 
burn all night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: 

Come bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boys, 
The Christmas Log to the firing ; 

While my good Jame she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your hearts desiring. 

The yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in Eng- 
land, particularly in the north ; and there arc several superstitions con- 
rected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the 
house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill 
omen. The brand remaining from the yule clog is carefully put away to 
light the next year's Christmas fixe. 



204 



WORKS OP WASHINGTON IRVING. 



wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet 
among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread witii 
substantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of frumenty, 
a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, be- 
ing a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was 
happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of 
the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and 
that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted 
him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old 
and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master 
Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an 
arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a 
parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a 
dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. 
He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a 
drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was irre- 
sistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very 
much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and mak- 
ing infinite merriment by harpings upon old themes ; which, 
unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not 
permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight, during 
supper, to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of 
stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of 
her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the 
younger part of the company, who laughed at everything ha 
said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not 
wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make 
an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt 
cork and pocket-handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a 
ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die 
with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CkA YON, GEMT. 2^5 

He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a vagrant 
comet in its orbit, sometimes visiting one branch, and some- 
times another quite remote, as is often the case with gentle- 
men of extensive connections and small fortunes in England. 
He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying the 
present moment ; and his frequent change of scene and com- 
pany prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating 
habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. 
He was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the 
genealogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of 
Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old 
folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated 
spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a 
young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the 
children \ so that there was not a more popular being in the 
sphere in which he moved, than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of 
late years, he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, 
to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particu- 
larly delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old 
times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every 
occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned 
talent ; for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wine3 
and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than 
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. 
He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle 
of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting 
that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a 
split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together ; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make such a cheer. 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, &c. 



2o6 WORJ<:S OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comfort- 
ing himself with some of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was 
a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and 
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be 
found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own home \ the old 
gentleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 
one : some of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire 
himself figured down several couple with a partner with 
whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for 
nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a 
kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, 
and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accom- 
plishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was 
endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, 
and other graces of the ancient school : but he had unluckily 
assorted himself with a little romping girl from boarding- 
school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the 
stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance : — 
such are the ill-sorted matches to which antique gentlemen 
are unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of 
his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
knaveries with impunity ; he was full of practical jokes, and 
his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all 
madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite- among the 
women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the 
young officer, and a ward of the 'Squire's, a beautiful blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had no- 
ticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little 
kindness growing up between them ; and, indeed, the young 
soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was 
tall, slender, and handsome ; and, like most young British 
officers of late years, had picked up various small accomplish- 



x^^^mwrW"^^'^^^ '^ , 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 207 

ments on the continent — he could talk French and Italian — 
draw landscapes — sing very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, 
above all, he had been wounded at Waterlo. ; — what girl of 
seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist ^uch 
d mirror of chivalry and perfection ? 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a ^itar, 
and lolling against the old marble fire-place, in an attitude 
which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began thj 
little French air of the Troubadour. The 'Squire, how- 
ever, exclaimed against hr.ving anything on Christmas eve 
but good old English ; upon which the young minstrel, cast- 
ing up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, 
struck into another strain, and with a charming air of gal- 
lantry, gave Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia x " 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
L,ike the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus to come unto me : 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been mtended in com- 
pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was 
called ^ she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such 



2o8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

application \ for she never looked at the singer, but kept her 
eyes cast up"n the floor ; her face was suffused, it i" true, with 
a beautiful blush, and there was r gentle heaving c : the 
bosom, but all that was doubtles^ caused by the exercise of 
the dance : indeed, so great was her indifference, th.-t -he 
was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet 
of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded 
the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on 
my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the yule cl g still 
sent forth a dusky glow ; and had it not been the season 
when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half 
tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether 
the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the pon- 
derous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the 
days of the giants. The room was panelled, with cornices 
of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces 
were strangely intermingled, and a row of black-looking por- 
traits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was 
of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in 
a niche opposite a bow-window. I had scarcely got into bed 
when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just 
below the window : I listened, and found it proceeded from a 
band, which I concluded to be the waits from some neighbor- 
ing village. They went round the house, playing under the 
windows. I drew aside the curtains, to hear them more dis- 
tinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the 
casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The 
sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and 
seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and 
listened — they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the 
pillow, and I fell asleep. 



SJCMTCM-BOO/C OF GEOFFREY CkA YOAT, GENT. 209 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



Dark and dull night flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

"Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on a sudden ?— Come and see 
The cause, why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and noth- 
ing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of 
their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whis- 
pering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted 
forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
painler could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, 
the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were 
going the rounds of the house, singing at every chamber door, 
but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bash- 
tulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips 
with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance 
from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 
14 



2 1 o WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I 
heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings, 
in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window 
of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have 
been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine 
stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, 
with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance 
was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chim- 
neys hanging over it ; and a church, with its dark spire in strong 
relief against the clear cold sky. The house was surrounded 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would 
have given almost an appearance of summer; but the morning 
was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening 
had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees 
and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The 
rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the 
glittering foliage. A robin perched upon the top of a moun- 
tain ash, that hung its clusters of red berries just before my 
window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a 
few querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of 
a Spanish grandee on the terrace-walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of 
gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- 
books ; the servants were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses ; 
and I must do him the justice to say, that he acquitted himself 
with great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his 
favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to a church 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT. 2 1 1 

melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but 
I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sud- 
den sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy 'Squire 
delivered one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice ram- 
bling out of all the bounds of time and tune : 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 
Spic'd to the brink : 

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping han^. 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read 
on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by 
Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once 
almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 
gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the 
custom is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must 
be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those house- 
holds, where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of 
worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every 
temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the 'Squire denominated 
true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamenta- 
tions over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen- 
sured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak 
nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness : and though 
he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, 
yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was 
called by everybody but the 'Squire. We were escorted by 



212 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a number of gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about 
the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old 
stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that had been in 
the family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog- 
whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in 
the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally 
upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight j and I could not but 
feel the force of the 'Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, 
heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried 
with them an air of proud aristocracy. 

There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about 
the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed 
a flock of them that were basking under a sunny wall, when 
I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, 
who told me that according to the most ancient and approved 
treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In 
the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we 
saw a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of 
deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of 
rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both 
understanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently 
set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may 
the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the 
leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in 
corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on 
so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the Hall ; for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who 
was extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly because 
they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the 
stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because they 
had a pomp and magnificence about them' highly becoming au 



fm^WmWWm^'W^- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 213 

old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had 
an air of greater state and dignity, than a peacock perched 
upon an antique stone ballustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment 
at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to 
perform some music of his selection. There was something 
extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of 
the little man ; and I confess that I had been somew^hat sur- 
prised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were 
not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last 
circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile 
that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to 
some half-a-dozen old authors, which the 'Squire had put into 
his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had 
a studious fit j as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long 
winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Hus- 
bandry \ Markham's Country Contentments \ the Tretyse of 
Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight ; Isaac Walton's 
Angler, and two or three more such ancient worthies of the 
pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men who 
know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of 
idolatry, and quoted theni on all occasions. As to his songs, 
they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 'Squire's 
library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the 
choice spirits of the last century. His practical application of 
scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked up- 
on as a prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- 
men, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood.. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the 
village bell, and I was told that the 'Squire was a little partic- 
ular in having his household at church on a Christmas morn- 
ing j considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoic- 
ing ; for, as old Tusser observed, — 

*'At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal 
And feast thy good neighbors, the ^reat with the small," 



ft 1 4 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established 
a musical club for their improvement j he has also sorted a 
choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to 
the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Content- 
ments j for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn 
mouths,' and for the tenor the < loud ringing mouth,' among 
the country bumpkins j and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled 
with curious taste among the prettiest lassies in the neighbor- 
hood \ though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to 
keep in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly 
wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was 
a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, 
about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a 
low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. 
The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree, that had 
been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of 
which, apertures had been formed to admit light into the small 
antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson 
issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such 
as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich 
patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a 
little meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was 
too wide, and stood off from each ear ; so that his head seem- 
ed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its 
shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets 
that would have held the church bible and prayer-book .' and 
his small legs seemed still smaller, from bemg planted in 
large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been ^ chuni of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 



^ 



^l(^IFf?^pl^p?^pf^ 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT. 2 1 5 

living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was 
a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable 
in his researches after such old English writers as have 
fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, 
perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent 
mvestigations into the festive rites and holiday customs of 
former times ; and had been as zealous in the inquiry, as if he 
had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that 
plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow 
up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learn- 
ing ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustra- 
tion of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. 
He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they 
seemed to have been reflected into his countenance ; which, if 
the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to 
a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch, we found fhe parson rebuk- 
ing the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among 
the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, 
he observed, an unholy plant, profane by having been used 
by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might 
be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church 
as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So ten- 
acious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged 
to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, 
before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable, but simple ; on 
the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, 
and just beside the altar, was a tomb of ancient workmanship, 
on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs 
crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it 
was one of th^ t^-vaily y^ had signalized himself in the Holy 



2t6 works of WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fire-place In 
the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of 
ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
old school, and a man of old family connexions. I observed, 
too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with 
something of a flourish, possibly to show off an enormous seal- 
ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look 
of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about 
the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently 
on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and 
emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among 
which I particularly noticed that of. the village tailor, a pale 
fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the 
clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and 
there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring 
at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round 
bald head, like the ^gg of an ostrich. There were two or three 
pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air 
of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentle- 
men choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona 
fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing 
from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiogno- 
mies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on 
cotintry tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the in- 
strumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up 
for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious c r- 
ity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter, to be 
in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been 
prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he 
had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 217 

at the very outset — the musicians became flurried ; Master 
Simon was in a fever ; ever37thing went on lamely and irregu- 
larly, until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us 
sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting 
company : all became discord and confusion ; each shifted for 
himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he 
could ; excepting one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, 
bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who, happening 
to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, 
kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his 
book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' 
duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it, 
not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; support- 
ing the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of 
the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophi- 
lus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and 
a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from, whom he made copi- 
ous quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity 
of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no 
one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found 
that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend 
with j having, in the course of his researches on the subject of 
Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controver- 
sies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a fierce 
assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor old Christ- 
mas was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament.*' 

* From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 24th, 
1652 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of the 
Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented 
with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine 
Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16, i Cor. xv. 14. 17; and in honour of the Lord's 
Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. i. Rev. i. 10. Psalms, cxviii. 
24. Lev. XX. iii. 7, ii- Mark xv. 8. Psalms, Ixxxiv. 10; in which Christmas is 
wiled Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who ob- 



2 1 8 WORKS OF IV A SUING TON IR VTNG. 

The worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but 
little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as 
th , gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution was 
mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries 
had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie 
throughout the land ; when plum porridge was denounced as 
" mere popery," and roast beef as anti-christian ; and that 
Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the 
merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled 
into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a stub- 
born conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten 
champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas 
festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most 
solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional cus- 
toms of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful 
anniversary of the church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church, the con- 
gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of 
spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks 
gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking 
hands ; and the children ran about crying, " Ule ! Ule ! " and 
repeating some uncouth rhymes,^ which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me, had been handed down from days of 
yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the 'Squire as he 
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every 

serve it, &c. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in con- 
sultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, 
and resolved to sit on the following day which was commonly called Christ- 
mas day." 

"Ule! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 

Crack nuts and cry ule \ " 



A 



''ippipl*' 



SKETCIT-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT, 219 

appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to 
the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
charity. 

On our way homeward, his heart seemed overflowing 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a ris- 
ing ground which commanded something of a prospect, the 
sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears ; 
the 'Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around 
with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the 
day was, of itself, sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwith- 
standing the f rostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless 
journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away the thin 
covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring 
out the living green which adorns an English landscape even 
in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure, contrasted 
vvith the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. 
Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded 
its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the 
dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute 
to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of wiriter ; it was, as 
the 'Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, 
breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to 
the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys o^ 
the comfortable farm-houses, and low thatched cottages. 
" I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and 
poor j it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, 
when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and o£ 
having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I 
am almost disposed to join with poor Robin, in his maledic- 
tion on every churlish enemy to this honest festival : 



220 WOJ^J^S OP WASHINGTOI^ TkVINQ, 

"'"Those who at Christmas do repine, 
And would fain hence despatch him, 
May they with old duke Humphry dine. 
Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him.' " 

The ^Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
the games and amusements which were once prevalent at this 
season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the 
higher ; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses were 
thrown open at day-light j when the tables were covered with 
brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and the 
carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were 
alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old games and 
local customs,'' said he, " had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the 
gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times 
merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one 
of our old poets, 

" I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 

" The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their inter- 
ests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin 
to read newspapers, listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of 
reform. I think one mode to keep them in good humor in 
these hard times, would be for the nobility and gentry to pass 
more time on their estates, mingle more among the country 
people, and set the merry old English games going again." 
Such was the good 'Squire's project for mitigating public 
*"An English gentleman at the opening of the ^reat day, /.<r. on 
Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter 
his hall by day-break. The strong beer was broached, andthe black jacks 
went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg and good Cheshire 
cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by day-break, or 
else two young men must take the maiden {i.e. the cook) by the arms and 
run her round the market place till she is shamed of her laziness." — Rouna 
^bout our Sea- Coal Fire* 



SICETCH-BOOK 0^ GEOFFREY CkAYON, GENT. 221 

discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his 
doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open 
house during the holidays in the old style. The country 
people, however, did not understand how to play their parts 
in the scene of hospitality j many uncouth circumstances 
occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the 
country, and more beggars drawn Into the neighborhood in 
one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the decent 
part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christ- 
mas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among 
the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home, when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without 
coats, their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats 
decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen ad- 
vancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of vil- 
lagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, 
Avhere the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed 
a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and 
striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music ; 
while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of 
■which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts 
of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic 
gesticulations. 

The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great inter- 
est and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which 
he traced to the times when the Romans held possession of 
the island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant 
of the sword-dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, 
*' nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it 
in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, 
to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough 
cudgel-play, and broken heads, in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was en- 
tertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
'Squire himselfmingled among the rustics, and was received with 



222 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, 
I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were 
raising their tankards to their mouths, when the 'Squire's 
back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving 
each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye 
they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. , With 
Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. 
His varied occupations and amusements had made him well 
known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at 
every farm-house and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and 
their wives ; romped with their daughters ; and, like that type 
of a vagrant bachelor the humble-bee, tolled the sweets from 
all the rosy lips of the country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affec- 
tionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited 
by the bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm 
glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a 
small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the 
heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the 
'Squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was 
much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon 
and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared 
to be the wit of the village; for I observed all his com- 
panions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst 
into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand 
them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment ; 
as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
of music in a small court, and looking through a window that 
commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, 
with pandean pipes, and tambourine \ a pretty coquettish 
housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while 
several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst 
of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the win- 
dow, and coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
confusion. 



^ 



^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CkAVON, GENT. 223 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast I 

Let every man be jolly, 
Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
And every post with holly. 

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 
And Christmas blocks are burning; 

Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning, 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die. 
Wee '1 bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers, Juvenilia, 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwack- 
ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving 
up of the dinner. The 'Squire kept up old customs in kitchen 
as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin struck upon the dresser 
by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice, 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand. 
Marched boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away.* 

Th^ dinner was ser\'ed up in the great hall, where the 
'Squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crack- 
ling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious 
* Sir John Suckling* 



' "^^!?»P^ 



224 WORKS OF WASHTNGTO IV IRVING. 

apartment, and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up 
the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the cru- 
sader and his white horse had been profusely decorated with 
greens for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been 
wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, 
which I understood were the arms of the same warrior. I 
must own, by the bye, I had strong doubts about the authen- 
ticity of the painting and armor as having belonged to the 
crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent 
days ; but I was told that the painting had been so considered 
time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation 
by the 'Squire, who at once determined it to be the armor 
of the family hero; and as he was absolute authority on 
all such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed 
into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under 
this chivalric trophy, on which w^as a display of plate that 
might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade 
of the vessels of the temple ; " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, 
goblets, basins, and ewers ; " the gorgeous utensils of good 
companionship that had gradually accumulated through many 
generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the 
two yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magni- 
tude j other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole 
array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

"We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy ; the old harper being seated on a stool 
beside the fire-place, and twanging his instrument with a vast 
deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas board 
display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of counte- 
nances j those who were not handsome, were, at least, happy ; 
and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. 
I always consider an old English family as well worth study 
ing as a collection of Holbein's portraits, or Albert Durer's 
prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much 
knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT. 225 

may be from having continually before their eyes those rows of 
old family portraits, with which the mansions of this country are 
stocked j certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity 
are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; 
and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture- 
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to genera- 
tion, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of 
the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and 
there was one little girl, in particular, of staid demeanor, 
with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who 
was a great favorite of the 'Squire's, being, as he said, a 
Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his 
ancestors who figured in the Court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 
unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one 
of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some- 
thing was expected j when suddenly the butler entered the 
hall with some degree of bustle j he was attended by a ser- 
vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver 
dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with 
rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with 
great formality at the head of the table. The moment this 
pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flourish ; 
at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving 
a hint from the 'Squire, gave, with an air of the most comic 
gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows ; 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen* 



226 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VI NG. 

tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine 
host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish 
was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered 
from the conversation of the 'Squire and the parson, that it 
was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head — a 
dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and the sound 
of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas day. " I 
like the old custom," said the 'Squire, " not merely because 
it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed 
at the college at Oxford, at which I was educated. When I 
hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when 
I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college hall 
— and my fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns ; 
many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up with 
the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version 
of the carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung 
at college. He went on, wath the dry perseverance of a com- 
mentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry 
annotations j addressing himself at first to the company at 
large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to other 
talk, and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an 
under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who 
was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of 
turkey.* 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day, 
is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by 
the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be accept- 
able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned mat- 
ters, I give it entire : 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero. 
Reddens laudes Domino. 




mmmmmmmmm 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, 227 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- 
sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season o£ 
overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to 
*' ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, 
*' the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of 
goodly presence, and full of expectation." There were several 
dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently some- 
thing traditional in their embellishments ; but about which, 
as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of 
that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the 
table. This, the 'Squire confessed, with some little hesi- 
tation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was cer- 
tainly the most authentical ; but there had been such a mor- 
tality among the peacocks this season, that he could not 
prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, &c. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 

&c., &c., &c. 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertain- 
ments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head 
appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly guilt; 
at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the 
solemn banquets of chivalry, when Knights-errant pledged themselves to 
undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used 
by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and 
Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with 



228 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 
other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he 
was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, 
the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to 
see the respect shown to his whims by his children and rela- 
tives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of 
them, and seemed all v/ell versed in their parts; having 
doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, 
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and 
other servants executed the duties assigned them, however 
eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the 
most part, been brought up in the household, and grown into 
keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of 
its lord ; and most probably looked upon all hig whimsical 
regulations as the established laws of honorable house- 
keeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silyer vessel, of rare and curious workmanship, which 
he placed before the 'Squire. Its appearance was hailed 
with acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in 
Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by 
the 'Squire himself ; for it was a beverage, in the skilful mix- 
ture of which he particularly prided himself j alleging that it 
was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an 
ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well 
make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed 
of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, 
with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* 

which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels 
of the olden times : 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses. 

Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues: 

Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris : the carcases of three fat weth- 
ers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock ! 

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; 
with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut- 
tw^ftWli l?evera^e i§ §till prepared in sopxe old families, a^d r^un^ t||? 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GEN7\ 229 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a 
merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round 
the board, for every one to follow his example according to 
the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of 
good feeling, where all hearts met together." * 

There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. But when it reached Master 
Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon 
companion, struck up an old Wassail Chanson ; 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a. 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 
' The merry deep canne, 
As thou dost freely quaff-a. 
Sing 
Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.f 

hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's 
Wool, and it is celebrated by Herrick m his Twelfth Night : 
Next crowne the bowle full 
With gentle Lamb's Wool, 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 
With store of ale too 
And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 
* " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each 
having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, 
he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappcU 
(chaplain) was to answer with a song." — Arch^ologia, 
■t Frpni Poor Robin's Almanapk, 



230 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. ' 



Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how- 
ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some 
gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirtation. 
This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was con- 
tinued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentle- 
man next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow 
hound j being one of these long-winded jokers, who, though 
rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their talents 
in hunting it down. At every pause in the general con- 
versation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same 
terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave 
Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, 
indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old 
bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, 
in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of Innocent 
hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in its 
time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt 
whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. 
How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure 
around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of 
gladness, making everything in its vicmity to freshen into 
smiles ! The joyous disposition of th»e worthy 'Squire was 
perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed 
to make all the world happy ; and the little eccentricities of 
his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of 
his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated : many good things were broached 
which had been thought of during dinner, but which would 
not exactly do for a lady's ear j and though I cannot pos- 
itively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have cer- 
tainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less 
laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE V CRA YON, GENT. 23 1 

and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good- 
humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is 
no jovial companionship equal to that, where the jokes are 
rather small, and the laughter abundant. 

The 'Squire told several long stories of early college 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy 
of a man, into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, 
the two college chums presented pictures of what men may 
be made by their different lots in life : the 'Squire had left 
the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the 
vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had 
flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor 
parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered away, among 
dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still 
there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly 
glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and, as the 'Squire 
hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid 
whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentle- 
man made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could 
decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of 
laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman 
that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his 
youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier 
and louder, as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was 
in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew j 
his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to 
talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song 
about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had 
gathered from an excellent black-letter work entitled " Cupid's 
Solicitor for Love ; " containing store of good advice for 
bachelors, and which he promised to lend me ; the first verse 
was to this eflect ; 



i3« WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVIl^G 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 

ihis song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 
made several attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe 
Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in 
the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part excepting 
himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good 
cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig 
sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture, 
we were summoned to the drawing-room, and I suspect, at 
the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed 
always tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to 
all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, 
made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played 
at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of 
children, and particularly at this happy holiday season, and 
could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing 
one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of 
blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their 
revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that 
ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the 
midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him 
as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking 
at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One 
fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all 
in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp^ 
was the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness with which 

* At Christmas there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was 
lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like 
nad ye in the house of every nobleman of honor ; or good worshippe, were 
he spiritual! Qr tempor^ll,— ^TOW. 



'.<v^,i;Tiiaa^^..._ 



_jL 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, 233 

Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed thi3 
wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shriek- 
ing over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit 
more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- 
pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was 
deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of 
some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from 
the library for his particular accommodation. From this 
venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing 
forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends 
of the surrounding country, with which he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am 
inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat 
tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be, who 
live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the 
country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with 
the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several anec- 
dotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning, 
the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church 
altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that part 
of the country, it had always been regarded with feelings of 
superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to 
get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard 
in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one 
old woman whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had 
seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon 
shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the 
belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the de- 
ceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a 
state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and 
jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; 
and there was a story current of a sexton, in old times, who 
endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night ; but just 
a§ Ji§ ireached it r^g^iv^4 a violent blow ffoii^ tiie m^rbl^ 



234 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pave- 
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the 
sturdier among the rustics ; yet, when night came on, there 
were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of ven- 
turing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout 
the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was 
thought by the servants to have something supernatural about 
it : for they remarked that, in whatever part of the hall you 
went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The 
old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and 
brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the 
maid-servants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often 
heard say, that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known 
all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies, become visible and 
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 
down from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, 
and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occasion 
the church door most civilly swung open of itself ; not that 
he needed it — for he rode through closed gates and even stone 
walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pass 
between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as 
thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much coun- 
tenanced by the Squire, who though not superstitious himself, 
was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every 
goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, 
and held the porter's wife in high favor on account of her 
talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of 
old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could 
not believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, 
must live in a kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds 
from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang 



i^MML. 



SKETCH-BOOlC OF CEOFFREV CRA VOAT, CEATT. 235 

of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and 
girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train 
came trooping into the room, that might almost have been 
mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That 
indefatigable spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful discharo-e of 
his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a 
Christmas mummery, or masking ; and having called in to 
his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were 
equally ripe for anything that should occasion romping and 
merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old 
housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes-presses 
and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the relics of 
finery that had not seen the light for several generations : the 
younger part of the company had been privately convened 
from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, 
into a burlesque imitation of an antique masque.* 

Master Simon led the van as " Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very 
much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, 
and a hat that might have served for a village steeple and 
must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. 
From under this, his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a 
frost bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy of a December 
blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished 
up as "Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of 
faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat and high-heeled 
shoes. 

The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting 
dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque 

* Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas, in old 
times, and the wardrobes at hall? and manor-houses were often laid under 
contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly sus- f 
pect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Mask 
of Christmas. 



236 WORKS OF WASH INGTQ]^ IRVING. 

natural to a young gallant in presence of his mistress. The 
fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as " Maid 
Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in 
various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient 
belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered 
with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging 
sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the characters 
of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated 
in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the 
Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I ob- 
served that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his 
wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac- 
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar 
and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory 
by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked 
a minuet with the peerless, though giggling. Dame Mince Pie. 
It was followed by a dance from all the characters, which, 
from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family 
portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the 
sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross-hands and 
right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and 
rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess, jigging merrily down 
the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy 'Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing 
his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not- 
withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authentically 
on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, 
from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my 

*Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from 
pavo, a peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of 
dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by 
those of the long robe in their gowns ; by the peers in their mantles, and 
by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, 
resembled that of a "^zz-zozV.— History of Music. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 237 

part, I was ina continual excitement from the varied scenes of 
whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring 
to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking 
out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness 
of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, 
from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting 
fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family 
in England in which the whole of them were still punctiliously 
observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this 
revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the 
time and place ; and as the old Manor-house almost reeled 
with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality 
of long-departed years. 



But enough of Christmas and its gambols : it is time for 
me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question 
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — 
how is the world to be made wiser by this talk ?" Alas ! is 
there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the 
world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens 
laboring for its improvement ? — It is so much pleasanter to 
please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than 
the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest 
deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? 
But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own dis- 
appointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in 
these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, 
or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow — if I can 
now and then penetrate through the gathering film-^f misan- 
thropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and 
himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in 
vain. 



ii3§ WO kits OF WAsHlNGfOl^ IRVIM. 

[The following modicum of local history was lately put 
into ray hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small 
brown wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became ac- 
quainted in the course of one of my tours of observation 
through the centre of that great wilderness, the City. I confess 
that I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of 
those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring trav- 
ellers like myself ; and which have brought our general 
character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On 
making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most 
satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, 
have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and 
particular account of the very interesting region in which he 
resides, of which the following may be considered merely as 
a foretaste.] 






SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CKA YON, GENT. 239 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying 
by me, which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the 
hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me.— Nash. 

In the centre, of the great City of London lies a small 
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and 
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes 
by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church school and 
St. Bartholomew's hospital bound it on the west : Smithfield 
and Long lane on the north \ Aldersgate-street, like an arm 
of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst 
the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth-street separates it from 
Butcher lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little 
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. 
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster 
Row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria lane, looks down with an 
air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As 
London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to 
the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took posses^ 
sion of their deserted abodes. For some time. Little Britain 
became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the 
busy and prolific race of booksellers : these also gradually 
deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great strait of New- 
gate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's 
Church-yard ; where they continue to increase and multiply, 
even at the present day. 



^4d tVORJ^S OP WASHWGTON IRVING, 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still 
bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses, 
ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently 
enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown 
birds, beasts, and fishes ; and fruits and flowers, which it 
would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in 
A Idersgate -Street, certain remains of what were once spacious 
and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days 
been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be 
found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery 
furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in 
great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, 
gilded cornices, and enormous marble fire-places. The lanes 
and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand 
a scale ; but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main- 
taining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their 
gable-ends to the street : great bow-windows, with diamond 
panes set in lead ; grotesque carvings ; and low-arched door- 
ways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I 
passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in 
the second floor of one of the smallest, but oldest edifices. 
My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small 
panels, and set of with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I 
have a particular respect for three or four high-backed, claw- 
footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the 
marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured 
in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to 
me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign con- 
tempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I have seen 
decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society 
with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front 
of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow-window ; on the 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has 
included in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes 
and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA VON, GENT, 241 

panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants 
for many generations ; mingled with scraps of very indifferent 
gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can 
scarcely decipher ; and which extol the charms of many a 
beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed 
faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no 
apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I 
am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the 
neighborhood ; and being curious to learn the internal state 
of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have 
managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of 
the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's-core of the 
city ; the strong-hold of true John BuUism. It is a fragment 
of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks 
and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the 
holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most 
religiously eat pancakes on Shrove-Tuesday ; hot-cross-buns 
on Good-Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send 
love-letters on Valentine's Day j burn the Pope on the Fifth 
of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at 
Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in 
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
grounds as the only true English wines — all others being con- 
sidered vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; such as 
the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it 
tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock \ 
the Monument ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden 
giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and for- 
tune-telling ; and an old w^oman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth 
Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, 
and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be 
rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog 
howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a 
16 



242 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVWQ. 



death in the place. There are even many ghost stories cut* 
rent, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses j in 
several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. 
Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging 
sleeves and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and 
brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste 
chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to be the 
shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One 
of the most important of the former is a tall dry old gentle- 
man, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's 
shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and 
projections ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair 
of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, 
who consider him as a kind of conjuror, because he has two 
or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several 
snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and news- 
papers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of 
plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions j 
which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He 
has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his 
customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same time puts 
both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer 
in omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of Robert 
Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so 
much out of an eclipse,, or even an unusually dark day ; and 
he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
tomers and disciples, until they were nearly frightened out of 
their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or 
prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There 
has been a saying current among the ancient Sybils, who 
treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the 
top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top 
of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This 
strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. 
The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of 



'•^'Zfuwr 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 243 

the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; 
and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually 
lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 

" Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here 
is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our 
own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of 
astrologers." Since these portentous weathercocks have thus 
laid their heads together, wonderful events had already oc- 
curred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had 
lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost \ 
another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died 
suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered ; there had 
been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody 
scenes at Manchester — the great plot in Cato-street ; — and, 
above all, the Queen had returned to England ! All these 
sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious 
look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with 
his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with 
stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, 
which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread great 
gloom t"hrough the minds of the people in Little Britain. They 
shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and ob- 
serve, that they never expected any good to come of taking 
down that steeple, which, in old times, told nothing but glad 
tidings, as the history of Whittington and his cat bears wit- 
ness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family man- 
sions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite 
in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a 
man of no little standing and importance ; and his renown 
extends through Huggin lane, and Lad lane, and even unto 
Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in the affairs 
of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half cen- 
tury, together with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's His; 



244 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



tory of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is 
stored with invaluable maxims, which have borne the test of 
time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is 
a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, 
that anything can shake her : and he has much to say on the 
subject of the national debt; which, somehow or other, he 
proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He 
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little 
Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and 
grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take 
his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made sev- 
eral excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighbor- 
ing towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking 
back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavor- 
ing to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage- 
coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he 
passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office 
of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family 
have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to 
Margate, but he has great doubts of these new gimcracks the 
steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to 
undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, 
and party spirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of 
two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One 
held its meeting at the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was 
patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and 
Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless 
to say, that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed 
an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable 
information as to the best mode of being buried ; the compar- 
ative merits of churchyards ; together with divers hints on the 
subject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the question dis- 
cussed in all its bearings, as to the legality of prohibiting the 
latter on account of their durabilityc The feuds occasioned 
by these §Qci^ties have happily died away of late • but they 



pi;^W.-^*-v^;.- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



245 



were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the 
people of Little Britain being. extremely solicitous of funeral 
honors, and of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third of quite 
-a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- 
humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week 
at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the 
name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half- 
mcon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole 
edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the 
thirsty wayfarer ; such as " Truman, Hanbury and Co.'s En- 
tire," "Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum, 
and Compounds, &c." This, indeed, has been a temple of 
Bacchus and Momus, from time immemorial. It has always 
been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is 
tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much 
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Eliza- 
beth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles 
the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally prides him- 
self upon, is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal 
rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather 
a dubious and vain-glorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here, goes 
by the name of " the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They 
abound in all catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tradi- 
tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part 
of the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker, who is 
inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and in- 
deed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. 
His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited 
with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with 
it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper 
little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a 
moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At 
the opening of every club night, he ii? called in to sing his 



246 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

"Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl 
from Gammer Gurton's needle. He sings it, to be sure, with 
many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for 
it had been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch 
of Grapes ever since it was written ; nay, he affirms that his 
predecessors have often had the honor of singing it before the 
nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little 
Britain was in all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be 
familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current 
songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would 
observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful 
thumping on the table and clattering of pewter-pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good, 
But sure I thinke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuif my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus* Back and syde go bare, go bare, 
Both foot and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe^ 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brown toste 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade. 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe. 

Can hurt me if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, Sec. 

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes she, tyll ye may see 

The teares run down her cheeke. 
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 

Even as a maulte-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 

Choru^. Bagk and syde go bare, go bare, &q. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 247 

It would do one's heart good to hear on a club-night. the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
the choral bursts of half-a-dozen discordant voices, which 
issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is 
lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gaz- 
ing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of 
a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair, 
and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the Fair, 
which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is 
nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late 
quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption 
of strange figures and faces ; — every tavern is a scene of rout 
and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap- 
room, morning, noon, and night ; and at each window may 
be seen some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, 
hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fond- 
ling and prozing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. 
Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must say 
is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no 
proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as 
keeping maid servants within doors. Their brains are abso- 
lutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show ; the 
Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the cele- 
brated Mr. Paap j and the Irish Giant. The children, too, 
lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and 
fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and 
penny whistles. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to. 
And all poor soules that have scowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wiveS) 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. 



248 WORKS OF WASHINGTON TRVING. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Bri- 
tain, as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with 
six horses, as the summit of human splendor ; and his pro- 
cession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the 
grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, 
that the King himself dare not enter the city without first 
knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking permis- 
sion of the Lord Mayor ; for if he did, heaven and earth ! 
there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The 
man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the 
city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends 
against the dignity of the city ; and then there is the little 
man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the win- 
dow of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long as a 
pike-staff — Od's blood ! if he once draws that sword, Majesty 
itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, 
the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar 
is an effectual barrier against all internal foes ; and as to for- 
eign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the 
Tower, call in the train bands, and put the standing army of 
Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the 
world ! 

Thus wrapped up in his own concerns, its own habits, and 
its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound 
heart to this great fungus metropolis. I have pleased myself 
with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of 
sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed-corn, to renew 
the national character, when it had run to waste and degen- 
eracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony 
that prevailed throughout it ; for though there might now and 
then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the 
cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud be- 
tween the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, 
and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



249 



parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other 
except behind their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 
which I have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games : 
and where we sometimes had a good old English country 
dance, to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverly. Once a year also 
the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy party 
to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good 
to see the merriment that took place here, as we banqueted on 
the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with 
bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry 
undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play 
at blindman's-buff and hide-and-seek j and it was amusing to 
see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping 
girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder 
folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothe- 
cary, to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought 
out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the 
country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little 
warm in argument ; but their disputes were always adjusted 
by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, 
who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed, some- 
how or other, to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innova- 
tion creep in ; factions arise \ and families now and then 
spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole 
system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran- 
quillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its 
golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion, 
by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood ; the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, and 



2^0 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, 
however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a 
lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand an- 
nual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich 
feathers on her head. The family never got over it; they 
were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up 
a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand- 
boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole 
neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced 
to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's-buff ; they could endure 
no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in 
Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talking bad 
French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, 
who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a 
critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he 
confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about 
Kean, the Opera, and the Edinbro' Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to 
which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but 
they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's 
Road, Red-lion Square, and other parts toward the Vv^est. 
There were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from 
Gray's-Inn lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three 
Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be 
forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar 
with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, 
and the rattling and jingling of hackney-coaches. The gossips 
of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps 
out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; 
and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look- 
out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scan- 
ned and criticized everyone that knocked at the door. 

The dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say 
to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little 



m^'' 



iSKETCB-^OOK OF GEOPPREY CkAYOxV, GENT. 251 

humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," 
as she would say, " in a friendly way j " and it is equally true 
than her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all pre- 
vious vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit 
and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who 
would condescend to thrum an Irish melody for them on the 
piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. 
Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family of Portsoken- 
ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched- 
Priars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted 
the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next 
gossiping convocation everything that had passed, and pulling 
e Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fash- 
ionable, was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in 
spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough hearty old 
fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a 
shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It 
was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as the "old 
gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite soft- 
ness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and 
slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, 
there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature 
would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vul- 
gar good-humor, that was irrepressible. His very jokes made 
his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing 
his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining as two o'clock, and 
having a " bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold 
and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now 
and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint 
about " quality binding." This both nettled and perplexed 
the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the con- 
summate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the 
circumstances, at length prevailed upon him to give up his 



2^2 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VI NG, 

afternoon pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's ; to sit after <ilnner 
by himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested— 
and nod in his chair, in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting alorlg tha 
streets in French bonnets, with unknowp beaux ; and talking 
and laughing so loud, that it distressed the nerves of everjf 
good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to at- 
tempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing-mas 
ter to set up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks ot 
Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor 
Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, 
and decamp with such precipitation that he absolutely forgot 
to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the 
overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and 
their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent con- 
tempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, 
IFrench fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say 
that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold j and that 
my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to follow their 
example. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband 
to let their daughters have one quarter at French and music, 
and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille ; I even 
saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French 
bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading 
about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood \ 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and 
that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the com- 
munity. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oil- 
man died, and left a widow with a large jointure, and a family 
of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been re- 
pining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which 
kept down all their elegant aspirings, Their ambition beiii2 



SKETCH-BOOIC OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 253 

now no longer restrained broke out into a blaze, and they 
openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is 
true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally 
an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could 
speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and 
had formed high acquaintance, but the Trotters were not to be 
distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in 
their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as 
fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were 
sure not to be behindhand ; and though they might not boast 
of as good company, yet they had double the number, and 
were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into 
fashionable factions, under the banners of these two families. 
The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are 
entirely discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up 
an honest country-dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a 
3'oung lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indig- 
nantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it 
" shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to 
the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs stand- 
ing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters 
•for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal 
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears \ and 
what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I ap- 
prehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine 
John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. 
Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle 
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only 
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in 
high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet 
councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to 
y agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed my- 



254 WORKS OF IV A SHING TON IR VING. 

self most horribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents, 
I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a 
truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehensions — 
if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and 
compare notes, I am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, 
where old English manners are still kept up ; where French is 
neither eaten, drank, danced, nor spoken ; and where there 
are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, 
I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old 
house about my ears — bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to 
my present abode — and leave the rival factions of the Lambs 
and the Trotters, to divide the distracted empire of Little 
Britain. 



SKETCH-BOOK OP GEOFFREY CRAYON-, GENT. 



''II 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling 
of something like independence and territorial consequence, 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts 
his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. 
Let the world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, 
so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for 
the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm- 
chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, 
of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a 
morsel of certaint)^ snatched from the midst of the uncer- 
tainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on 
a cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some way on the 
pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding 
even morsels and moments of enjoyment. ^* Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn ? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, 
lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at 
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling 
face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I 
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My 



256 WORKS OF WASIIINGTdN TRVINC. 

dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my 
throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and 
putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow 
companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, 
the Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about 
the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- 
denly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; 
and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the 
breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to 
burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and 
where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his 
father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking 
edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling place of genius, 
which seems to delight in hatching its off spring in by-corners. 
The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and 
inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, 
and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; and present a 
simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal 
homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 
red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished 
with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an ex- 
ceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhib- 
iting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated 
shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very 
matchlock with which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poach- 
ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves 
that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword 
also with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern 
with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the 
tomb ! There was an ample supply also of Shakspeare's 
mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of 






SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA VOJV, GENT. 257 

self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; of which 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shak- 
speare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small 
gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. 
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the 
slowly-revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin ; or of 
an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, 
dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the 
troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom 
of everyone who visits the house tosit : whether this be done 
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, 
I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact ; and mine 
hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be 
new-bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of 
notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it 
partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa 
of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for 
though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found if§ way back again to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, 
and local anecdotes of goblins and great men : and would 
advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the 
same. What is it to us whether these stories be true or false 
so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, 
and enjoy all the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like 
resolute good-humored credulity in these matters t and on this 
occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims 
of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, un- 
luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at 
defiance. 



258 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces Drought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on 
an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and 
retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- 
yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their 
branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the 
boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in 
summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of 
the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown 
with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk 
into the earth, are half -covered with moss, which has likewise 
tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their 
nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep 
up a continual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing 
and cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the grayheaded 
sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 
church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty 
years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, 
with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of 
his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 
looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and 
was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which 
pervade the humblest dwelling in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and polished, lay the family bible and prayer-book, and 
the drawer contained the family library, composed of about 
half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that 
important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite 
side of the room ; with a bright warming-pan hanging on one 
side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 259 

Other. The fire-place, as usual, was wide and deep enough to 
admit a gossip knot within its Jambs. In one corner sat the 
old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and 
in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he 
addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had 
been his companion from childhood. They had played to- 
gether in infancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; 
they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening 
of life j and in a short time they will probably be buried to- 
gether in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we 
see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tran- 
quilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " 
of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing 
new to impart. The long interval, during which Shakspeare's 
writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow over 
history; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely anything 
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford 
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 
the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, ac- 
cording to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively 
and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down 
Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his 
pocket for sale \ no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her 
remains of the mulberry-tree ; and the old sextpn even ex- 
pressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her 
house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter 



26o WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that his- 
torians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the 
stream of truth diverge into different channels, even at the 
fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, 
and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved 
doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the ar^ 
chitecture and embellishments superior to those of most 
country churches. There are several ancient monuments of 
nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral es- 
cutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 
The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is 
solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed 
windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 
the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone 
marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four 
lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and 
which have in them something extremely awful. If they are 
indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of 
the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
thoughtful minds : 

Good friend, for Jesus* sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust inclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust oi 
Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as 
a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear 
indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he 
was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by 
the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age 
at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely 
death for the world : for what fruit might not have been ex- 
pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 



m'' 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CKA \ OA CEN7: 261 

h was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and ilourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favor ! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some 
laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, 
through which one might have reached into his grave. No 
on^,, however, presumed to meddle with the remains so awfully 
guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the 
curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to com- 
mit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place 
for two days, until the vault was finished, and the aperture 
closed. again. He told me that he had made bold to look in 
at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing 
but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust 
of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb 
close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
Combe, of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have 
written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments 
around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not 
connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place — 
the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no 
longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect 
confidence ; other traces of him may be false or dubious, but 
here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod 
the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shak- 
speare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ,- 
and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought 
from Stratfordo 



262 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at 
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, 
m company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, committed 
his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hairbrained 
exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to 
the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful 
captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas 
Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; 
for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pas- 
quinade, which was afhxed to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so 
Incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to 
put th^ severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer- 
stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united pu- 
issance of a Knight of the Shire and a country attorney- 
He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avo'7 
and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became 
a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, 
wrote for the stage j and thus, through the persecution of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and 
the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, 
for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of 
Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings ] but in the 
sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to 
be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed 
iipon him by the Justice's armorial bearings, which, like those 
oA the Knight, had white luces f in the quarterings. 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon j 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great ; 
Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 
t The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Char- 
lecot. 



m 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 363 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to 
soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; 
but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural 
to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, 
had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When 
left to itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every- 
thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shak- 
speare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daripgly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like 
an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he 
was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd and 
anomalous characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps 
of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention 
of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they 
will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in 
Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scot- 
tish Knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imag- 
ination, as something delightfully adventurous.* , 

* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youth- 
ful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford 
by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the 
Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of 
Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to' 
meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the 
lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages, to a contest, ^i drinking. 
Among others, the people of Stratford were called out id prove the 
strength of their heads; and in the number of the chanip'om was Shak- 
speare, who, in spite of the proverb, that " they who drink beei will think 
beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Strat- 
ford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had 
legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile, 
when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab- 



264 WORKS OF WASHINGTON' rH^fNG. 

The old mansion of Charlecot arvd its surrounding park 
still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are 
peculiarly interesting from being conoec<:ed with this whimsical 
but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. 
As the house stood at little more than three miles' distance 
from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I 
might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which 
Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural im- 
agery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless; but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the tem- 
perature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects 
upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating, to wit- 
ness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath 
stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth be- 
ginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade ; 
and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting 
buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The 
cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, 
was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small 
gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt 
lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered 
about the thatched eaves and budding hedges.; the robin 
threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and 
the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 

tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the 
name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return- 
ing to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drunk 
with- 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 

Haunted Hiibro', Hungry Grafton, 

Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 

Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland," still bear the epithets thus ' 
given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the 
pipe and tabor: Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough; and 
G'-pfton is famous for the poverty of its soil. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 265 

towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents 
of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up 
higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the 
white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still iilled with 
his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song 
in Cymbeline : 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
Withevery thing that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise ! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every 
old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- 
hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic 
life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his 
dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amuse- 
ment in winter evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell merry 
tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, 
dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." * 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and wind- 
ings through a wide and fertile valley : sometimes glittering 
from among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes 
disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks j and 

* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these 
fire-side fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggers, spirits, 
witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with 
the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, 
nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good fellow, the sporne, the mare, 
the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, 
hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were 
afraid of our own shadowes." 



266 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure 
sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom 
of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant 
line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whnst 
all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained 
in the silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a foot-path, which led along the borders of fields and 
under hedge-rows to a private gate of the park ; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which everyone has a kind of property 
— at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. It in some 
measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is more, 
to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleas- 
ure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the 
pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as 
the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling 
all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing'to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that 
has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pre- 
tended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence 
of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period 
of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. 
They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and proudly con- 
centrated independence of an ancient family ; and I have heard 
a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking 
of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentr}^, that " money 



SKETCH-BOOK OP CliOPt^i^EY CRAYON, GENT. 267 

could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, 
there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of 
oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of 
FuUbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
some of Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived 
his noble forest meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting 
woodland pictures in " As you like it." It is in lonely wander- 
ings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet 
draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the 
beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into 
reverie and rapture j vague but exquisite images and ideas 
keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost 
incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, 
and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which 
threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quiver- 
ing waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied 
forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a 
wral voluptuary : 

Under the green-wood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither , come hither, 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building 
of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of 
Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of 
her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original 
state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence 
of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gate- 
way opens from the park into a kind of court-yard in front of 
the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower- 



268 WORKS OF WASHTNGTOl^ IRVING. 

beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican j 
being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers ; though evi- 
dently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front of 
the house is completely in the old style ; with stone shafted 
casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At 
each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted 
by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend 
just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down 
from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding 
or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majes- 
tically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old 
mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on justice 
Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity 
of the latter : 

" Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
** Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : 
— marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion 
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and 
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court- 
yard was locked \ there was no show of servants bustling about 
the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no 
longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
sign of domestic life that I met with, was a white cat, stealing 
with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on 
some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the 
carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against 
the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that 
lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous 
exercise of territoral power which was so strenuously mani- 
fested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to 
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- 



SKETCH-BOOK OP GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 269 

keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her 
order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part 
has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes 
and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and 
the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the 
days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and 
at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The 
weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned 
the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family 
portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire-place, calculated for 
an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place 
of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the 
huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out 
upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass 
the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, 
some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the 
quarterings the three White luces by which the character of Sir 
Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They 
are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having 
" beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." 
The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his com- 
rades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family 
pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a 
caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. 

^'Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star-Chamber 
matter of it ; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse 
Robert Shallow, Esq. 

" Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

*' Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and ciistalorum. 

'^Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master 
parson ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or 
obligation, Armigero. 

"■ Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hundred 
years. 

" Slendef. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and all his 



2^0 



WORJ^S OF WASHINGTON IkVWG. 



ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces 
in their coat. 

" Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot 

" Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of Got 
in a riot : the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear o^ Got, and 
not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

*' Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end 
it!" 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy famil}^ a great beauty of 
the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook 
her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that 
this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled 
away a great portion of the family estate, among which was 
that part of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades 
had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have not been 
entirely regained by the family, even at the present day. It 
is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had 
a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fire-place, containing likenesses of Sir 
Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the 
latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it' 
was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured 
me that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former 
being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring, 
hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of the 
costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in 
ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a 
peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane- 
colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of 
the picture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the chil- 
dren have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk 
is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the chil- 
dren holds a bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 



s/CE tch-book: of geoffre y cra voat, gent. 2 7 1 

ing, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accom- 
plished gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of former 
days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural 
domains ; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted 
Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant 
Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out 
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the 
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded 
by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue- coated serving- 
men with their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought 
in, forlorn and eliapfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, 
huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 
country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious house- 
maids peeping from the half-opened doors j while from the 
gallery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully 
forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity " that 
dwells in womanhood." — Who would have thought that this 
poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
country 'Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to 
become the delight of princes ; the theme of all tongues and 
ages ; the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer im- 
mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon 1 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, 
" his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and 
serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats 
is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of 
nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, 
and have his fist gloved with his Jesses." And Gilpin, in his description 
of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run, buck, 
fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and 
short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, 
and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, 
paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds and spaniels." 



2 ^i WokJc^ Of washing ton- ik vhvc. 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, 
and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the 
Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a 
last year's pippen of his own graffing, with a dish of carra- 
ways ; " but I had already spent so much of the day in my ram- 
bling, that I was obliged to give up any farther investigations. 
When about to take my leave, I was gratified by the civil 
entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take 
some refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality, which 
I grieve to say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern 
days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present 
representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for 
Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow 
importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances 
to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night * * * *. I will 
not excuse you ; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted ; 
there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * * * Some 
pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell * William Cook.' " 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary 
scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be 
actually living among them. Everything brought them as it 
were before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room 
opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master 
Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : 

*' 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 
singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic 
of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and 
places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this 
" working-day world " into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed 
the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard 



'' •', '<'X 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 273 

influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a 
complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through 
the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues 
of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings \ 
with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet 
which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard 
Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld the fair Rosa- 
lind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands ; 
and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat 
Jack Falstaff, and his contemporaries, from the august Justice 
Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slendiy^nd the sweet 
Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard 
who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent 
illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in 
my checkered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social 
life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 
paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet 
lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which 
has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed 
vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being 
mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and es- 
cutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What 
would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 
compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in 
beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude 
about the grave may be but the offspring of an overwrought 
sensibility \ but human nature is made up of foibles and prej- 
udices ; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled 
with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown 
about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, 
will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 
applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in 
peace and honor, among his kindred and his early friends. 



274 WORKS OF WASHINGTON TkVlJVG. 

And when the weary heart and failing head began to warn 
him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in 
the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it cov- 
ered with renown ; that his name should become the boast 
and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be relig- 
iously guarded as its most precious treasure ; and that its les- 
sening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contempla- 
tion, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst 
the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every 
nation to his tomb ! 



r^jirii!^7'«-' 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 275 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, 
and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he 
clothed him not." — Speech of an Indian Chief' 

There is something in the character and habits of the 
North American savage, taken in connection with the scenery 
over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, bound- 
less forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to 
my mind, wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed 
for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature 
is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with difh- 
culties, and to support privations. There seems but little 
soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly virtues ; and yet, 
if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that 
proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which look up his 
character from casual observation, we should find him linked 
to his fellow man of civilized life by more of those sympathies 
and affections than are usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 
wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed of 
their hereditary possessions, by mercenary and frequently 
wanton warfare ; and their characters have been traduced by 
bigoted and interested writers. The colonist has often treated 
them like beasts of the forest ; and the author has endeav- 
ored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it 
easier to exterminate than to civilize — the latter to vilify 
than to discriminate, The appellations of savage and pagan 



276 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and 
thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and 
defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they 
were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he 
has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war, he has 
been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was 
a question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is 
cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, 
and he is sheltered by impunity ; and little mercy is to be 
expected from him when he feels the sting of the reptile, and 
is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices which were indulged thus early, exist 
in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
to investigate and record the real characters and manners of 
the Indian tribes; the American government, too, has wisely 
and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- 
bearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud 
and injustice,* The current opinion of the Indian character, 
however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes 
which infest the frontiers, and hang on to the skirts of the settle- 
ments. Tli^se are too commonly composed of degenerate 
beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, with- 
out being benefited by its civilization. That proud indepen, 
dence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has 
been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. 
Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of in- 

* The American government has been indefatigable in it sexertions to 
meliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the 
arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them 
from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by 
individuals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from 
them as a present, without the express sanction of governt^eRt- Th?§Q 
pecautions ars strictly enforq^^- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 277 

feriority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the 
superior knowledge and power of their enlightened neighbors. 
Society has advanced upon them like one of those withering 
airs that will sometimes breathe desolation over a whole region 
of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their 
diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the 
low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand 
superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of 
mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the 
■ chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the 
settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests 
and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the 
Indians on our frontiers to be mere wrecks and remnants of 
once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the 
settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. 
Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind 
unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every 
free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, 
indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like 
vagrants about the settlements among spacious dwellings, 
replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them 
sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their own condi- 
tion. Luxury spreads its ample board before their eyes ; but 
they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the 
fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : 
the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they 
feel as reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state, while yet the undisputed 
lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of 
gratification within their reach. They saw everyone round 
then sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, feed- 
ing on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. 
No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger j no 
smoke curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit 
down by its fire and join the hunter in his repast. " For," 
says an old historian of New-England, *' their life is 50 void 



278 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING, 

of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of 
those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so 
compassionate, that rather than one should starve through 
want, they would starve all ; thus do they pass their time 
merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such 
were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their 
primitive natures; they resemble those wild plants which 
thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the 
hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the influence of the 
sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggera- 
tion, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in 
which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar princi- 
ples under which they have been educated. No being acts 
more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct 
is regulated according to some general maxins early implanted 
in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, 
but few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the white man 
abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how 
many does he violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is 
their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness 
with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly 
to hostihties. The intercourse of the white men with the 
Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, 
and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence 
and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor 
is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feel- 
ings of pride or superstition, which often prompt the Indian 
to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The 
solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities 
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white 
man ^ but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 379 

his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer 
objects ; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportion- 
ably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot 
sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also Hmited 
in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an 
Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the 
whole j and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instanta- 
neously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the discus- 
sion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the 
fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and supersti- 
tion combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The 
orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought 
up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the 
prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in 
an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead 
at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's 
mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they enter- 
tain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have 
passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, 
when by chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, 
have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided 
by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country 
for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the 
bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there 
have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this 
sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb 
had been violated, gathered his men together, and addressed 
them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic ha- 
rangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an af- 
ecting Instance of filial piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- 
neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, 



23 o WORKS OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

f s my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast 
closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much 
troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried 
aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the 
breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, 
and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those 
wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful 
manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs? 
See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, 
defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and 
implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly 
intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest 
quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit van- 
ished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began 
to get some strength, and recollected my spirits that were fled, 
and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends 
to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been 
attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep 
and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian char- 
acter and customs prevent our properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians, is 
their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly 
in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though 
sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their 
number, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly 
felt ; this was particularly the case when they had been fre- 
quently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in 
Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable 
to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, by the 
capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There 
was a strong temptation, therefore, to , the victor to be mer- 
ciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to pro- 
vide for future security. The Indians had also the supersti- 
tious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent 
^Iso among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who 



SKE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT. 2 8 1 

had fallen in battle, were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopt- 
ed into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated 
with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends \ 
nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that 
when the alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to 
remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the 
home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has 
been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What 
was formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has 
been exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They 
cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of 
their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and 
the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, 
smarting with injuries and indignities which they have indi- 
vidually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair 
by the wide-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin 
of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set 
them an example of violence, by burning their villages and 
laying waste their slender means of subsistence \ and yet 
they wonder that savages do not show moderation and mag- 
nanimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere 
existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacher- 
ous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to 
open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude 
code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praise- 
worthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in 
silence, and take every advantage of his foe ; he triumphs in 
the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled 
to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally 
more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical 
weakness in comparison with other animals. They are en- 
dowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with 
tu^ks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend on hi§ 



282 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his 
proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem : and when he 
perversely turns his hostility against his fellow man, he at 
Irst continues the same subtle mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to 
our enemy, with the least harm to ourselves : and this o£ 
course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous cour- 
age which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence 
and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of 
society, and produced by education. It is honorable, because 
it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinct- 
ive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after per- 
sonal ease and security, which society has condemned as 
ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and 
thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread 
of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been 
cherished and stimulated also by various means. It has been 
the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet 
and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors 
of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober 
gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and 
rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants 
have been its reward ; monuments, on which art has ex- 
hausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been 
erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. 
Thus artificially excited courage has risen to an extraordinary 
and factitious degree of heroism ; and, arrayed in all the 
glorious " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent 
quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, 
but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human 
character, and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of dan- 
ger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition 
of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. 
Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather 
seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest 



SKETCTT-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 283 

to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode 
of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared 
for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the 
ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of 
ocean, — as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and 
wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; 
so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, 
through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expe- 
ditions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of 
the devoted, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses 
vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of 
lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great 
inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings ; in his light 
canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and 
darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids 
of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the 
midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships 
and dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of 
the bear, the panther, and the buffalo ; and sleeps among 
the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian 
in his lofty oontempt of death, and the fortitude with which 
he sustains its crudest affliction. Indeed, we here behold 
him rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his 
peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at 
the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its ap- 
proach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied tor- 
ments of surrounding foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. 
He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provok- 
ing their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey 
on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, 
he raises his song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an 
unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to 
witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- 
rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate 



284 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which 
throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. 
Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of 
the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with the col- 
oring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and 
will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice 
shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New- 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
ii.to the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks 
from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In 
one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the 
night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the 
miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to 
escape, " all being despatched and ended in the course of an 
^^ur." After a series of similar transactions," our soldiers," 
as the historian piously observes, " being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and 
pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the 
sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and 
children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; 
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their 
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insult- 
ing foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dis- 
mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situ- 
ated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which 
means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the 
darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day, some few 
broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods: 
" the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were 
killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in 
heir self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, 



m^"- 



^kEXm-BOOK dP GEOFFREY CRA VOI^, GE^T. 285 

or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day 
broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, "saw several 
heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they dis- 
charged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol-bullets 
at a time j putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, 
within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were 
found dead, many more were killed and sunk into the mire, 
and never were minded more by friend or foe." 

Can anyone read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad- 
miring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness 
of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught 
heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of 
human nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, 
they found the senators clothed in their robes and seated with 
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs j in this manner they 
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such 
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous 
— in the hapless Indians, it was reviled as obstinate and sul- 
len. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! 
How different is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in 
state, from virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely 
in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The 
eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that 
sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces re- 
main of them in the thickly-settled states of New-England, 
excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a 
stream. And such must sooner or later be the fate of those 
other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally 
been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of 
white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that 
their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still 
linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tribu- 
tary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those 
tribes that once spread over Massachusetts anc^ Connecticut, 



286 WORKS OF WASmNGTON IRVING. 

and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Sus- 
quehanna ; and of those various nations that flourished about 
the Potowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peopled the 
forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like 
a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will 
be lost in forgetfulness ; and " the places that now know them 
will know them no more forever." Or if, perchance, some 
dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the 
romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his 
glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan 
deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark 
story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how 
they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled ; driven from their 
native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers ; hunted like 
wild beasts about the earth ; and sent down with violence and 
butchery to the grave — posterity will either turn with horror 
and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at 
the inhumanity of their forefathers. — " We are driven back," 
said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no farther — our 
hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly 
extinguished — a little longer and the white man will cease to 
persecute us — for we shall cease to exist.'' 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRB V CRA YON, GENT, 287 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look J 
A soul, that pity touch'd, but never shook ; 
Train'd, from his tree-rock'd cradte to his bier. 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated 
of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given us 
more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable 
characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anec- 
dotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and in- 
terest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, 
and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and 
what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm 
of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts 
of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth 
of moral sentiment; and perceiving those generous and ro- 
mantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by 
society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude mag- 
nificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost 
the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of 
his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The 
bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, 
or softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed 
good breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, 



2gS iVORKS OF WASHilSrG Ton IRVING, 

and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of 
popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real, from his 
artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from 
the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses 
of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus 
the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every rough- 
ness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the 
eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface ; 
he, however, who would study Nature in its wildness and 
variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- 
ume of early colonial history wherein are recorded, with great 
bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with 
the settlers of New-England. It is painful to perceive, even 
from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization 
may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the 
colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; 
how merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The im- 
agination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings 
were hunted from the earth — how many brave and noble 
hearts, of Nature's sterling coinage, were broken dowri and 
trampled in the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachu- 
setts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a 
number of cotemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pe- 
quods the Narrhagansets, the Wampanoags, and the other 
eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New-Eng- 
land : a band of native untaught heroes ; who made the most 
generous struggle of which human nature is capable ; fighting 
to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope 
of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, 
and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 289 

left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but 
stalk like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 
When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation 
was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in 
number, and that number rapidly perishing away through 
sickness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness 
and savage tribes j exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic 
winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their 
minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- 
served them from sinking into despondency but the strong 
excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation 
they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wam- 
panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of 
country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number 
of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories into 
which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for 
them a generous friendship, and extended towards them the 
rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to 
their settlement of New-Plymouth, attended by a mere hand- 
ful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure 
for them the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever may be 
said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good 
faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued 
a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men j suffering 
them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves 
in the land j and betraying no jealousy of their increasing 
power and prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once 
more to New-Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the pur- 
pose of renewing the covenant of peace, and securing it to 
his posterity. 

* While correctingthe proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed, 
that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished a heroic poem on the 
Story of Philip of Pokanoket. 

19 



290 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



At this conference, he endeavored to protect the religion 
of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- 
aries ; and stipulated that no farther attempt should be made 
to draw off his people from their ancient faith j but, finding 
the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he 
mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his 
life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they 
had been named by the English) to the residence of a princi- 
pal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence ; 
and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed 
between the white men and himself, might be continued 
afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in 
peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow 
came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to experi- 
ence the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and jDroudly tenacious of his 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dic- 
tatorial conduct of the strangers, excited his indignation ; and 
he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hos- 
tility, being accused of plotting with the Narrhagansets to rise 
against the English and drive them from the land. It is im- 
possible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts, 
or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, 
by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that 
they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid in- 
crease of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in 
their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed 
force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their 
court. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at 
a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his fol- 
lowers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness 
of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, 
so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as 
to throw him into a raging fever \ he was permitted to return 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 291 

home on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his re- 
appearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and be- 
fore he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a 
wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King 
Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty 
spirit and ambitious temper. . These, together with his well- 
known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of 
great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of hav- 
ing always cherished a secret and implac'able hostility towards 
the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have 
been the case. He considered them as originally but mere in- 
truders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, 
and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He 
saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them 
from the face of the earth j their territories slipping from their 
hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, and depen- 
dent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased 
by the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of Indian 
purchases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Euro- 
peans always made thrifty bargains, through their superior 
adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of terri- 
tory, by easily-provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is 
never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an 
injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts 
•are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip to 
know, that before the intrusion of the Europeans his coun- 
trymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were becom- 
ing vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- 
tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his 
brother, he suppressed them for the present ; renewed the con- 
tract with the settlers ; and resided peaceably for many years 
at Pokanoket, or as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



29 2 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, how- 
ever, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to 
acquire form and substance ; and he was at length charged 
with attempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise 
at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke 
of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to 
assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against 
the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an 
aptness to acts of violence on the part of the whites, that 
gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers 
abounded, where tale-bearing met with countenance and re- 
ward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed, when its success 
was certain, and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural 
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
liad received among the settlers. He changed his faith and 
his allegiance two or three times with a facility that evinced 
the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time 
as Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had en- 
joyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the 
clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he aban- 
doned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order 
to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plot- 
ting against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. ' 
Philip and several of his subjects, submitted to be examined, . 
but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, 
had now gone too far to retract ; they had previously de- 
termined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor ; they had 
publicly evinced their distrust, and had done enough to insure 
his hostility : according, therefore, to the usual mode of rea- 
soning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary 
to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was 
shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to 
the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was 
a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 293 

and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were 
condemned and executed as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment 
of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions 
of Phihp. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet 
awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to 
trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The 
fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled 
in his mind ; and he had a farther warning in the tragical 
story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narrhagansets, 
who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of 
the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, 
and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously de- 
spatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his 
fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he could 
to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narrha- 
gansets for safety j and wherever he appeared, was continually 
surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in aflame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev- 
ous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of 
their maraudings, a warrior was fired upon and killed by a 
settler. This was the signal for open hostilities \ and the In- 
dians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the 
alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times, 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the 
public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and sav- 
age tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, 
and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of 
witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a 
belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians 
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings 
whichjorerun great and Dublic calamities. The Derfect arm 



294 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New-Plymouth, which 
was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious appa- 
rition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their 
neighborhood, " was heard the report of a great piece of ord- 
nance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable 
echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning, 
by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to 
whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the 
air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied 
that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; 
and certain monstrous births which took place about the time, 
filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 
Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed 
to natural phenomena; to the northern lights which occur 
vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the 
air ; the casual rushing of a, blast through the top branches 
of the forest \ the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks ; 
and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes, which will 
sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound 
stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled 
some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by 
the love for the marvellous, and listened to with that avidity 
with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the 
grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the 
day, are strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too 
often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and 
savages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted with 
superior skill and success \ but with a wastefulness of the 
blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antago- 
nists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the des- 
peration of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to 
€xpect from peace, but humiliation, dependence and decay. 

■iThe events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
* The Rev. Increase Mather's History 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 295 

clergyman of the time; who dwells with horror and indig- 
nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, 
whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atroc- 
ities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a 
traitor ; without considering that he was a true-born prince, 
gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his 
line j and to deliver his native land from the oppression of 
usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such 
had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and 
had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been 
overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually 
broke out was but a war of detail ; a mere succession of casual 
exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the 
military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, 
in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been 
given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, v/e find him dis- 
playing a vigorous mind j a fertility in expedients \ a contempt 
of suffering and hardship j and an unconquerable resolution, 
that command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he 
threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless for- 
ests that skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious 
to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered to- 
gether his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of 
mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly 
emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and 
dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications 
of these impending ravages that filled the minds of the colonists 
with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun 
would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, where 
there was known to be no white man ; the cattle w^hich had 
been wandering in the woods, would sometimes return home 
wounded ; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about 
the skirts of the forests, and suddenly disappearing ; as the 



296 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about, the 
edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
their toils \ and plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to 
all search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far dis- 
tant quarter laying the country desolate. Among his strong- 
holds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in 
some parts of New England j composed of loose bogs of 
deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank 
weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain foot- 
ing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered 
them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian 
could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into 
one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip 
once driven with a band of his followers. The English did 
not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and 
Frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry 
pits or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested 
the entrance to the neck, and began to build a fort, with the 
thought of starving out the foe j but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the 
dead of night, leaving the women and children behind ; and 
escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war 
among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, 
and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehen- 
sion. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated 
his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; 
whose coming none could foresee, and against which none 
knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded 
with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of 
ubiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely extended frontier 
an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said to be'its 
leader. Many superstitious notions also were circulated con- 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 297 

cerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be 
attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he con- 
sulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incantations. 
This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs ; either 
through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their fol- 
lowers : and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer 
over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent in- 
stances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, 
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had 
been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the 
whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a 
faithful friend in Canonchet, Chief Sachem of all the Narrha- 
gansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great 
Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquit- 
tal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to 
death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He 
was the heir," says the old chronicler, " of all his father's 
pride and insolence, as well as " of his malice towards the 
English j " he certainly was the heir of his insults and 
injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though 
he had forborne to take an active jDart in this hopeless war, 
yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms ; 
and gave them the most generous countenance and support. 
This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English; and 
it was determined to strike a signal blow, that should involve 
both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, 
therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, 
and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narrhaganset country 
in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leaf- 
less, could be traversed with comparative facility, and would 
no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the 
greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, 
the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress j where 



298 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. 
This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated 
upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in 
the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of 
judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed 
in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of 
these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous* 
The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several 
of their bravest officers were shot down in the act, of storm- 
ing the fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed 
with greater success. A lodgement was effected. The In- 
dians were driven from one post to another. They disputed 
their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. 
Most of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long 
and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of 
surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in 
the thickets of the surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the 
whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women 
and the children, perished in the flames. This last outrage 
overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring 
wood resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered 
by the fugitive warriors as they beheld the destruction of 
their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives 
and offspring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a cotem- 
porary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the women and chil- 
dren, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible 
and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the sol- 
diers." The same wTiter cautiously adds, " they were in much 
doudnhen, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning 
their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and 
the benevolent principles of the gospel." * 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy 
*MSc of the Rev, W. Ruggles. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 299 

of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the 
noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal de- 
feat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he 
had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on 
condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared 
that " he would fight it out to the last man, rather than be 
come a servant to the English." His home being destroyed ; 
his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the 
conquerors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of 
the Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the 
whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the 
English settlements. 

Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedi- 
tion, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, 
in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to 
plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of 
adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, 
and were in the centre of the Narrhaganset, resting at some 
wigwams near Pautucket river, when an alarm was given of 
an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the 
time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a 
neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled-in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He 
attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 
hotly pursued by the hostile Indians, and a few of the fleetest 
of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be 
Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 



300 



tVORl^S OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards 
confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, and 
he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by 
a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made 
no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and bold- 
ness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the whole pride 
of his spirit arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, 
in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated 
flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned 
by one of the English who first came up with him, and who 
had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted 
warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon this youthful counte- 
nance, replied, " You are a child — ^you cannot understand 
matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will 
I answer." 

Though repeated offers v/ere made to him of his life, on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he 
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with 
his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he 
would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor the parings of a 
Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would burn the 
English alive in their houses ; he disdained to justify himself, 
haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war 
as himself, " and he desired to hear no more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his 
cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the 
generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ; a 
being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, 
religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The 
last words of his that are recorded, are worthy the greatness 
of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, 



SKETClFT-BOdK OF G&OFpREY CRAYON, GENT. 301 

he observed, " that he liked it well, for he should die before 
his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything unworthy of 
himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for 
he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his 
own rank. 

The defeat of the Narrhaganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed 
of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted 
by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the 
terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of 
the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself 
daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around 
him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims 
to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which 
they were harassed. His stores were all captured ; his 
chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes j his 
uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried into 
captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled 
to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the 
enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, " being thus gradu- 
ally carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented 
thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense and 
experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family 
relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before 
his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they 
might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery, a 
number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an 
Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate 
of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Weta- 
moe was among them at the time, and attempted to make her 
escape by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by 



302 



WORICS OF WAStilNCTOM IRVWG. 



swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found 
dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased 
not at the grave : even death, the refuge of the wretched, 
where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no 
protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affec- 
tionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse 
was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the 
head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and 
was thus exposed, at Taunton, to the view of her captive sub- 
jects. They immediately recognized the features of their un- 
fortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spec- 
tacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid 
and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated 
miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery 
of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduced him 
to despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, 
nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope 
was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished : he 
looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; there was 
no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. 
With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to 
his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to 
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his 
fathers. Here he lurked about, " like a spectre, among the 
scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, 
of family, and friend. There needs no better picture of his 
destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the 
homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the 
feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he 
reviles. "Philip," he says, "like a savage wild beast, having 
been hunted by the English forces through the woods above 
a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to 
his own den upon Mount Hope, where he had retired, with a 
few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a 
prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by 
divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." 



}^lf^l^0m^:mm^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 303 

Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a 
sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him 
to ourselves seated among his careworn followers, brooding in 
silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sub- 
limity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. 
Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not 
humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster 
and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last 
dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by 
misfortune j but great minds rise above it. The very idea of 
submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death 
one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. 
The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge 
betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men 
and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp where 
Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before 
he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround 
him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers 
laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth 
from his covert, and made a headlong attempt at escape, but 
was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate 
King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishon- 
ored when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced 
anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in 
them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken 
sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. We find, 
that amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of 
constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connu- 
bial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous senti- 
ment of friendship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and 
only son " is mentioned with exultation, as causing him 
poignant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly 
recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery 
and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he 



jo4 WORKS OP WASHINGTON IRVING. 

had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have 
bereaved him of all farther comfort. He was a patriot, at- 
tached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and 
indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in 
adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of 
bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had 
espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untameable love of 
natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of 
the forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps 
and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submis- 
sion, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury 
of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achieve- 
ments that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have 
rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived 
a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, 
like a lonely bark, foundering amid darkness and tempest — 
without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to 
record his struggle. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 305 



JOHN BULL. 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate^ 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his look^ 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, &c. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more 
excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving 
ludicrous appellations or nick-names. In this way they have 
whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; 
and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared 
even themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, 
a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, 
and imposing ; but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor 
of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and 
familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in 
the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three- 
cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken 
cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibit- 
ing their most private foibles in a laughable point of view; 
and have been so successful in their delineation, that there is 
scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present 
to the public mind, than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
20 _ 



': ^. ; \ *lW^f: ;: /;^ ^ ^^^ 



306 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. . 

drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and 
thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in 
a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to ac- 
quire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The 
common orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with 
the l^eau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and en- 
deavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually 
before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their 
boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; 
and this I have especially noticed among those truly home- 
bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated, 
beyond the sound of Bow Bells. If one of these should be a 
little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, 
he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks 
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable 
burst of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a 
choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, 
and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, 
and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven 
for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish 
for frippery and knicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled 
by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is ex- 
cused under the plea of munificence — for John is always more 
generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to 
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself 
of being the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, 
or rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a 
stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather 
much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of 
John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. 
Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are 
continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting differ- 
ent aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 307 

has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a 
slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter- 
of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast 
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more 
than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather 
than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or sur- 
prised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has 
no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you 
allow him to have his humor, and to talk about himself ; and 
he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, 
however soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity 
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, 
who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generally disposed to be every 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services 
to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 
if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking 
his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office 
of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with 
all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He 
unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of 
defence, and having accomplished himself in the use of his 
limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at 
boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it 
ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most 
distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble 
with the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest 
or honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. 
Indeed, he has extended his relations of pride and policy so com- 
pletely over the whole country, that no event can take place, 
without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. 
Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching 
fprth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied 



3o8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so 
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his 
repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his 
den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow 
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of 
contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he 
only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a 
fiffht with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when 
victorious j and though no one fights with more obstinacy to 
carry a contested point, yet when the battle is over and he 
comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the 
mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket 
all that they have been quarrelling about. It is not, there- 
fore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard against, 
as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a 
farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and you may bargain 
him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout 
ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, but 
roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of 
pulling out a long purse j flinging his money bravely about 
at boxing-matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a 
high head among " gentlemen of the fancy ; " but immediately 
after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be taken with 
violent qualms of economy; stop short at the most trivial 
expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined and brought 
upon the parish ; and in such moods will not pay the smallest 
tradesman's bill without violent altercation. He is, in fact, 
the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world ; 
drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluc- 
tance j paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying 
€verv guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
provider, and a hospitable house-keeper. His economy is 
gf a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 309 

may afford to be extravagant y for he will begrudge himself 
a beef-steak and pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox 
whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors 
on the next. 

Kis domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not 
so much from any great outward parade, as from the great 
consumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of 
followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to 
pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indul- 
gent master, and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, 
flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate 
grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to 
perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive 
and grow fat. His house servants are well paid, and pam- 
pered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, 
and prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house- 
dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a 
house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten, 
appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is 
a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. 
The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is 
as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. 
Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, 
intricate mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have 
been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many 
places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions 
have been made to the original edifice from time to time, and 
great alterations have taken place ; towers and battlements 
have been erected during wars and tumults ; wings built in 
time of peace and out-houses, lodges, and offices, run up ac- 
cording to the whim or convenience of different generations, 
until it has become one of the most spacious, rambling tene- 
ments imaginable. An entire wing is taken up with the family 
chapel j a reverend pile, that must QRce hav^ been exceedingly 



3IO WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite o£ having been altered and 
simplified at various periods, be^ still a look oi solcnin re- 
ligious pomp. Its wallr. within are storied with the mon- 
uments of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with 
soft cushions and '.veil-lined chairs, where such of his family 
as are inclined to church services, may doze comfortably in 
the discharge of their duties. 

To keep u;j this chapel, has cost John much money ; 
but he is staur ch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from 
the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been 
erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with 
whom he has had quarrels, are strong Papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains, at a large 
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most 
learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Chris- 
tian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, 
winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children 
when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants 
to read their bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay 
their rents punctually, and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, 
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn 
magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though 
faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gor- 
geous old plate. The vast fire-places, ample kitchens, ex> 
tensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, — all speak 
of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the moderrx 
festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, 
however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and 
time-worn ; and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay ; 
so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling about 
the ears of the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
but th^ old gentleman always grows testy oti this subject, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 



3" 



He swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight 
and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that 
it has stood for several hundred years, and therefore is not 
likely to tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, 
his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not 
be comfortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and 
irregular construction, these result from its being the growth 
of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every 
generation — that an old family, like his, requires a large house 
to dwell in j new, upstart families may live in modern cottages 
and snug boxes, but an old English family should inhabit an 
old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 
building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the 
strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the 
whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each other, 
that if you pull down one you run the risk of having the 
whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposi- 
tion to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to 
the dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounte- 
ous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependants; 
and so, partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, 
he makes it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to 
his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable 
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old re- 
tainers whom he cannot run off, and an old style which he 
cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large 
for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in 
housing some useless personage. Groups qf veteran beef- 
eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery 
and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over 
its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon 
the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is 
garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families \ for 



312 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to 
leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. 
A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering 
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop- 
hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who 
has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most 
grievous outcry, at their pulling down the roof from over the 
head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal 
that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man 
who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is 
sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, 
where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze un- 
disturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy exam- 
ple of grateful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were 
to imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one 
of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to his 
visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past ser- 
vices, and boast, with some little vain-glory, of the perilous 
adventures and hardy exploits through which they have car- 
ried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages, and family encumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gypsies; yet he will not suffer 
them to be driven off, because they have infested the place 
time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every gener- 
ation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to 
be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest 
it should molest the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they are 
hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have 
nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins 
build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter about the 
towers, and perch on every weather-cock ; and old gray-headed 
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in 
and out of their holes undauntedlvin broad daylight. In 




'^7^'^WWr^'m'W^ 



SITE TCH-BOOK OF GEOFFRE Y CRA YON, GENT, 3 1 3 



short, John has such a reverence for everything that has been 
long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being 
reformed, because they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to 
drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself 
on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his 
credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great per- 
plexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been in- 
creased by the altercations and heartburnings which are con- 
tinually taking place in his family. His children have been 
brought up to different callings, and are of diifereret ways of 
thinking ; and as they have always been allowed to speak 
their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege 
most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some 
stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old 
establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever 
may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and consid- 
erate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and 
to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen 
to their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been com- 
pletely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his 
sons. This is a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, 
who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator 
of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of 
his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his 
brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, 
takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an over- 
turn. When his tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. 
He rants about the room ; hectors the old man about his 
spendthrift practices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists 
that he shall turn the old servants out of doors ; give the 
broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain 
packing and take a field-preacher in his place — nay, that the 
whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and 
a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He railsj 



3 1 4 WORKS OF WASHING TON IR VING. 

at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives 
up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the empti- 
ness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket- 
money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores 
for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's extrav- 
agance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees 
with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so 
irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of 
retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him 
and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refrac- 
tory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of 
the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which 
at times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his 
son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at present 
living at home, on half-pay. This last is surp to stand by the 
old gentleman, right or wrong ; likes nothing so much as a 
racketing roistering life ; and is ready, at a wink or nod, to 
out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares 
to array himself against paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and 
are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People 
begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs 
are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad 
with him as represented ; but when a man's own children be- 
gin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. 
They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and 
is continually dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly 
an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too 
fast j indeed, they never knew any good come of this fondness 
for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, 
Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in the family 
a long while ; but for all that, they have known m^ny finer 
estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 315 

embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor 
man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and 
smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late be- 
come as shrivelled and shrunk as a frostbitten apple. His 
scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in 
those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now 
hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His 
leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles j and apparently 
have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides 
of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about, as formerly, with his three- 
cornered hat on one side j flourishing his cudgel, and bringing 
it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; 
looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave 
of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes about whistling 
thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his 
cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the 
bottom of his breeches pockets, v/hich are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for 
all this, the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. 
If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he 
takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and 
stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out large sums 
to adorn his house or to buy another estate ; and, with a val- 
iant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to 
have another bout at quarterstaff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all 
this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation, with- 
out strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and 
obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He 
may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, 
but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent 
him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain, homebred, and 
unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good 
qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity ; his quar- 
relsomeness, of his courage ; his credulity, of his open faith; 



r^^€!i:W?(Wlj^JF?^iW^Ww 



3 1 6 tvonics dP wASHmc ton ik vinG. 

his vanity, of his pride ; and his bluntness, of his sincerity. 
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. 
He is like his own oak ; rough without, but sound and solid 
within ; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion 
to the growth and grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches 
make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, 
from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is some- 
thing, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion, that 
is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can 
be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble 
to see it meddled with during the present conflict of tastes 
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good 
architects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are 
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with 
their mattocks on the venerable edifice, would never stop 
until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried 
themselves among the ruins. All that I wish, is, that John's 
present troubles may teach him more prudence in future ; 
that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's 
affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote 
the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the 
world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
home ; gradually get his house into repair \ cultivate his rich 
estate according to his fancy: husband his income — if he 
thinks proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can \ 
renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, 
on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry 
old age. 



SKETCH-BOO K OF GEOFFRE Y CRA VOAt, GENT, 3 1 7 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolf howle : no screech-owle stit 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love*keep it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross- 
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the coun- 
try, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of 
which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of 
primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in 
the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I determined 
to pass the night there, and having taken an early dinner, 
strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led 
me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here 
and there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fan- 
tastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant cov- 
ering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day 
had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared 
up ; and though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there 
was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the 
setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up 
all nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the part- 



3i8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ing hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows 
of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an 
assurance that he will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
past scenes, and early friends — on those who were distant, and 
those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
choly fancying which has in it something sweeter even than 
pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the 
neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in unison 
with the scene, and instead of jarring, chimed in with my feel- 
ings ; and it was some time before I recollected, that it must 
be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and re-ap- 
peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the 
place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young 
girls, dressed in white ; and another, about the age of seven- 
teen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers ; a token 
that the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The 
corpse was followed by the parents. They were a venerable 
couple, of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed 
to repress his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, 
and deeply-furrowed face, showed the struggle that was pass- 
ing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with 
the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was 
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, 
with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the 
deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
service : for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over 
the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the 
bloom of existence—what can be more affecting ? At that 
simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to the grave 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAVOJSt, GENT. 319 

— " Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust ! " the tears 
of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed unre_ 
strained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings^ 
and to comfort himself with the assurance, that the dead are 
blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought 
of her child as a flower of the field, cut down and withered in 
the midst of its sweetness : she was like Rachel, " mourning 
over her children, and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the 
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. 
Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced 
in circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up 
entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
flock. The good man watched over education with paternal 
care j it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she 
was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to 
her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all 
ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy 
of character that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her 
form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, 
blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed 
by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her 
manners. It might be truly said of her, — 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the greensward : nothing she does or seems. 
But smacks of something greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which 
still retains some vestiges of old Eng/ish customs. It had its 
rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some 



326 Works of tvAsmNCToAt IrvInO. 

faint observpnce of the once popular rites of May. These, 
indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor ; who was a 
lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that 
think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and 
good will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole 
stood from year to year in the centre of the village green ; on 
May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers j and 
a queen or the lady of the May was appointed, as in former 
times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and 
rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the 
fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice 
of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a 
young ofBcer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in 
the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste that 
pervaded this village pageant ; but, above all, with the dawn- 
ing loveliness of the queen oE May. It was the village favor- 
ite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling 
in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. 
The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make 
her acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; 
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. 
He never even talked of love ; but there are modes of making 
it, more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from 
every word, and look, and action — these form the true elo- 
quence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but 
never described. Can we wonder that they should readily 
win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, 
she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what 
v/as the growitig passion that was absorbing every thought 
and feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, in- 
deed, looked not to the future. When present, his looks and 
\ii'ords occupied her whole attention j when absent, she thought 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON; GENT. 



321 



but of what had passed at their recent interview. She would 
wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of 
the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature \ 
he talked in the. language of polite and cultivated life, and 
breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the 
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 
of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military at- 
tire, might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these 
that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something 
in it of idolatry ; she looked up to him as to a being of a 
superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a 
mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sor- 
did distinctions of rank and fortune, she thought nothing ; it 
was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from 
those of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, 
that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him 
with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her 
cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured 
a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, 
and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
' unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned j but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun 
the connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother 
officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 
triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of 
spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart 
had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a 
wandering and a dissipated life : it caught fire from the very 
flame it sought to kindle j and before he was aware of the 
nature of his situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which 
so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His 
rank in life — the prejudices of titled connections — his depen- 



322 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

dence upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbad him to 
think of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this 
innocent being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity 
in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a bewitching 
modesty in her looks, that awed down every licentious feeling. 
In vain did he try to fortify himself, by a thousand heartless 
examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous 
sentiment, with that cold derisive levity with which he had 
heard them talk of female virtue ; whenever he came into 
her presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious, 
but impassive charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed 
sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
the continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He 
remained for a short time in a state of the most painful irres- 
olution j he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day 
for marching was at hand \ when he gave her the intelligence 
in the course of an evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. 
It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked 
upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with 
the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his 
bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek, nor did he ' 
meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow 
and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affection. He 
was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently 
yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, 
and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to over- 
whelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose that she 
should leave her home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 
He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and fal- 
tered at his own baseness ; but, so innocent of mind was his 
intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
meaning ; — and why she should leave her native village, and 
the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of 
his proposals flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 323 

withering. She did not weep — she did not break forth into 
reproaches — she said not a word — but she shrunk back aghast 
as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced to 
his very soul, and clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for 
refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the con- 
flict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by 
the bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his 
tenderness. Yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his 
thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the foot- 
path along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and 
the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm 
and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the de- 
struction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faint- 
ings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and 
were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She 
had beheld from her window the march of the departing 
troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in 
triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, and the 
pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as 
the morning sun glittered about his figure, and his plume waved 
in the breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision from her 
sight, and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after- 
stor\'. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she 
had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the 
stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood 
over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes 
she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of 



324 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



the village church ; and the milk-maids, returning from the 
fields, would now and then overhear her singing some plain, 
tive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her 
devotions at church ; and as the old people saw her approach, 
so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed 
air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would 
make way for her, as for something spiritual, and, looking 
after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord 
that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed 
to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle 
bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was 
extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in 
a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a farewell 
letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touching 
from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, 
and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. 
She even depicted the sufferings which she had experienced j 
but concluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, 
until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, and she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, 
where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit 
all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered 
no complaint, nor imparted to anyone the malady that was 
preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's 
name ; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and 
weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, 
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- 
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the 
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek, 
might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday 
afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was 
thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 325 

the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own 
hands had trained round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible ; 
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and the joys of 
heaven ; it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity 
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil- 
lage church — the bell had tolled for the evening service — 
the last villager was lagging into the porch — and everything 
had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of 
rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. 
Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, 
had given to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trem- 
bled in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless 
lover.? — or were her thoughts wandering to that distant 
churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered.? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman 
galloped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her 
chair : — it was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, 
and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her 
death-like countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation 
— smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at 
her feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempted to extend 
her trembling hand— her lips moved as if she spoke, but no 
word was articulated — she looked down upon him with a smile 
of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have but 
little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear 
trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the 
time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony 
which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my 
mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I 
have passed through the place since, and visited the church 
^gain from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 



326 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage j the 
churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled 
coldly through the grass. Evergreens, however, had been 
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers 
were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. The church 
door was open, and I stepped in. — There hung the chaplet of 
flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the 
flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been 
taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen 
many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken 
the sympathy of the spectator ; but I have met with none 
that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but 
delicate memento of departed innocence. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 327 



THE ANGLER. 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well dissembled fly. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family, and betake himself to seafaring life, 
from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect 
that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen, who 
are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle- 
rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the 
seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying 
his " Complete Angler " several years since, in company with 
a knot of friends in America, and, moreover, that we were all 
completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the 
year \ but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the 
spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod 
in hand, and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever 
Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of 
his equipments; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. 
He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat perplexed with half a 
hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; 
a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod ; a landing 
net, and ft score of other inconyenienge^ only to be found in 



228 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he 
was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the coun- 
try folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel- 
clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra 
Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 
highlands of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the 
execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented 
along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was 
one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic 
solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book 
of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap 
down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
trees threw their broad balancing sprays ; and long nameless 
weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping 
with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret 
along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with 
murmurs ; and after this termagant career, would steal forth 
into open day with the most placid demure face imaginable ; 
as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after 
filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out 
of doors, swimming, and curtseying and smiling upon all the 
world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such 
times, through some bosom of green meadow land, among the 
mountains j where th^ quiet was only interrupted by the oc- 
casional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the 
clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter's axe from the neighbor- 
ing forest ! 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled above half an hour, before I had completely " satisfied 
the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak 
Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a 
man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; 
tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait; broke my rod; 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, CrNT. 329 

until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day 
under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had 
bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My compan- 
ions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. I 
have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the 
border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was 
merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising 
with hollow scream, as they break in upon his rarely-invaded 
haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously from his 
dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the 
gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 
from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; 
and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they ap- 
proach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world 
around. 

I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and 
creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub- 
berly country urchin came down from the hills, with a rod 
made from a branch of a tree ; a few yards of twine ; and, as 
heaven shall help me ! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, 
baited with a vile earth-worm — and in half an hour caught 
more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day. 

But above all, I recollect the " good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree just by 
a spring of pure sweet water, that stole out of the side of a 
hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read old 
Izaak Walton's scene with the milk-maid, while I lay on the 
grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell 
asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot 
refrain from uttering these recollections which are passing 
like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called 
up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills 



330 



WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted 
to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found 
it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The 
former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very 
much, but very carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly 
come by, and decently maintained. His face bore the marks 
of former storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had 
been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung 
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air 
of a constitutional philosopher, who was disposed to take 
the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged 
-wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll 
warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in 
the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was a 
tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and appar- 
ently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busied 
examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to 
discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for 
"bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, 
who appeared to listen with infinite deference, I have a kind 
feeling toward all "brothers of the angle," ever since I read 
Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, 
and peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem for them has been 
increased since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with 
the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of 
their inoffensive fraternity. " Take goode hede," sayth this 
honest little tretyse, " that in going about your disportes ye 
open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye 
shall not use this foresaid crafti disport for no covetousness 
to the increasing and sparing of your money only, but prin- 
cipally for your solace and to cause the helth of your body 
and specyally of your soule." * 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more in- 
dustrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. ** For 
when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge, ye will not desyre 
greatlye man^ persons with you, whigh might let you of your game. And 



SKETCff-BOOK OP GEOPPREV CRAYON, GENT. 



ZZ'^ 



I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler be- 
fore me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there 
was a cheerful contentedness in his looks, that quite drew 
me towards him. I could not but remark the gallant manner 
in which he stumped from one part of the brook to another ; 
waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on 
the ground, or catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness 
with which he would throw his fly to any particular place ; 
sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes 
casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root 
or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to 
lurk. In the meanwhile, he was giving instructions to his 
two disciples \ showing them the manner in which they should 
handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the 
surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the 
instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country 
around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of 
describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, 
close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the 
inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smell- 
ing meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, 
was mild and sunshiny ; with now and then a soft dropping 
shower, that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was 
so much entertained, that, under pretext of receiving instruc- 
tions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole 
day j wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening 
to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy 
garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flat- 
tered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory 
lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the sage .^ 

He had been much of a rambler in his day ; and had 

that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable 
prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, 
as ydleness, which is a principall cause to induce man to many other vices, 
as it is right well known." 



33 i Work:s op washing to at ir ving. 

passed some years of his youth in America, particularly in 
Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been 
ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards 
experienced many ups and downs in life, until he got into 
the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball, 
at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of 
real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a 
pension, which, together with some small paternal property, 
brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this 
he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and 
independently, and devoted the remainder of his life to the 
*' noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 
he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prev- 
alent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted 
about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was 
good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used 
in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every 
hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor 
and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of 
things ; and above all, he was almost the only man I had 
ever met with, who had been an unfortunate adventurer in 
America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough, to take 
the fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. 

The lad that was receiving his instructions I learnt was 
the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow, who kept the 
village inn, and of course a youth of some exi^ectation, and 
much courted by the idle, gentleman-like personages of the 
place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man 
had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, 
and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, 
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures in- 
flicted on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentle- 
ness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the English 
are methodical even in their recreations, and are the most 



^kETCfi-EOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GEATT. 333 

scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to 
perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amusement pe- 
culiarly adapted to the mild and cultivated scenery of England, 
where every roughness has been softened away from the 
landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid 
streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom 
of this beautiful country ; leading one through a diversity of 
small home scenery ; sometimes winding through ornamented 
grounds j sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, 
where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; 
sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets j and 
then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The 
sweetness and serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness 
of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing; 
which are now and then agreeably interrupted by the song 
of a bird ; the distant whistle of the peasant ; or perhaps 
the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and 
skimming transiently about its glassy surface. "When I 
would beget content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase 
confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Al- 
mighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, 
and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those 
very many other little living creatures that are not only 
created, but fed, (man knows not how) by the goodness of 
the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling which breathes the same 
innocent and happy spirit : 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place : 
Where I may see my quill, or cork down sink, 

With eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace. 
And on the world and my creator think : 

While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 



334 U^OJ^J^S OP WAStimGTOl^ IRVING. 

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue. 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill, 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting with the old angler, I inquired after his place 
of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the 
village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek 
him out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing 
only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and 
arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green 
bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden in 
front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, and adorned with a few 
flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a 
honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. 
The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas 
of comfort and convenience having been acquired on the 
berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from 
the ceiling, which in the day-time was lashed up so as to take 
but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a 
model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three 
chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal 
movables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, 
such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom 
Bowling, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 
which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. 
The mantelpiece was decorated with seashells ; over which 
hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter- 
looking naval commanders. His implements for angling 
were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. 
On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on 
angling, much worn ; a bible covered with canvas ; an odd 
volume or two of voyages ; a nautical almanac j and a book 
of songs. 

* J. Davors. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 335 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated 
himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which 
uttered a variety of sea phrases, with the hoarse ratding tone of 
a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that 
of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, 
everything being "stowed away" with the regularity of a 
ship of war ; and he informed me that he " scoured the deck 
every morning, and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking 
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring 
soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some 
strange evolutions in an iron ring, that swung in the centre 
of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a 
history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general 
would talk over a campaign; being particularly animated 
in regulating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, 
which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and 
which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old 
age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being 
tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet 
harbor in the evening of his days ! His happiness, however, 
sprung from within himself, and was independent of external 
circumstances ; for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, 
which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself 
like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the 
mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring farther about him, I learnt that he was a 
universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap- 
room j where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, 
like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, 
and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by 
gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had taught several 
of them the art of angling ; and was a privileged visitor to 
their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and 



336 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring 
streams, when the weather and season were favorable ; and 
at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his 
fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, 
nets and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made 
it his particular request that when he died he should be buried 
in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, 
and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and 
had thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in 
danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot where 
his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy " brother of the angle ;" who has made me more than 
ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be 
adroit in the practice of his ait ; and I will conclude this 
rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by 
craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my reader, 
" and upon all that are true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust 
in his providence ; and be quiet; and go a angling." 



^KElCH-DOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, ^^il 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papers of the late DIEDRICH 
Knickerbocker). 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which in- 
dent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expan- 
sion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators 
the Tappaan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened 
sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they 
crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which 
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally 
and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name 
was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good house- 
wives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity 
of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but 
merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is 
a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which 
is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small 
brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one 
to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping 
of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks 
in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

22 



338 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- 
rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades 
one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, 
when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the 
roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, 
and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. 
If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from 
the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the 
remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising 
than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from th& 
original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been 
known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads 
are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neigh 
boring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang 
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some 
say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, 
during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old 
Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his 
powwows there before the country was discovered by Master 
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is the place still continues 
under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell 
over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in 
a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvel- 
lous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently 
see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. 
The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors 
glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the 
country, and the night-mare, with her whole nine fold, seems 
to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 
of the air, is the apyarition of a figure on horseback without 
a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT, 



339 



trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, 
in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and 
who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying 
along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. 
His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times 
to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a 
church that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the 
most authentic historians of those parts, who have been 
careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concern- 
ing this spectre, allege, that the body of the trooper having 
been in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of 
battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed 
with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a 
midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry 
to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows ; and the spectre is known at all the 
country firesides, by the name of The Headless Horseman 
of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides 
there for a time. However wide awake they may have been 
before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a 
little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and 
begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see appa- 
ritions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud j for it 
is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there 
embosomed in the great State of New- York, that population, 
manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent 
of migration and improvement, which is making such inces- 
sant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps 
by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the 



340 WORKS OF WASHINGTON TRVING. 

Straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving 
in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing 
current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the 
drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I 
should not still find the same trees and the same families 
vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period 
of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, 
a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, 
or, as he expressed it. " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the 
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was 
a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union 
with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends 
forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country 
schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable 
to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with nar- 
row shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a 
mile out of his sleeves, feet that- might have served for shovels, 
and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head 
was small, and fiat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy 
eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather- 
cock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the. 
wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill 
on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about 
him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine 
descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and 
partly patched with leaves of copy-books. It was most in- 
geniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the 
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters ; 
so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he 
would find some embarrassment in getting out; — an idea 
most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, 
froni the mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood 



iipii 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON-, GENT. 



341 



a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a 
woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable 
birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low 
murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, 
might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a 
beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice 
of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, perad- 
venture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged 
some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in 
mind the golden maxim, " spare the rod and spoil the child.*' 
— Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart 
of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice 
with discrimination rather than severity ; taking the burden 
off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. 
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish 
of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims 
of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on 
some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, 
who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath 
the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents ; " 
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it 
by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, 
that " he would remember it and thank him for it the longest 
day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted 
for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behoved him to 
keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising 
from his school was small, and would have been scarcely suf- 
ficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge 
feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an 



342 



WORK'S OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, accordins: 
to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the 
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With 
these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
Ti is rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of school- 
ing a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, 
he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and 
agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the 
lighter labors of their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended 
the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from 
pasture j and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, 
too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with which 
he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became 
wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the 
eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the 
youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilome so magnani- 
mously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one 
knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was 
a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his 
station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen 
singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away 
the palm from the parsen. Certain it is, his voice resounded 
far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are 
peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which 
may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side 
of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said 
to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. 
Thus, by divers little make-shifts, in that ingenious way which 
is commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," the worthy 
pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YOIST, GENT. 



343 



who understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a 
wonderful easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered 
a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior 
taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, 
indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea- 
table of a farm-house, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of 
a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
would figure among them in the churchyard, between services 
on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amuse- 
ment all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with 
a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill- 
pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheep- 
ishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- 
ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from 
house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted 
with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women 
as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books 
quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's 
History of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he 
most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his 
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both 
had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region^ 
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bor- 
dering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, 
and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the 



344 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist 
before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and 
stream and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he hap- 
pened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching 
hour, fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the whip- 
poor-will * from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, 
that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl ; 
or the sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from 
their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of 
uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and if, 
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to 
give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either 
to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they 
sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with 
awe, at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long 
drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky 
road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat 
spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sput- 
tering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales 
of ghosts, and goblins, and haunted fields and haunted brooks, 
and haunted bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of 
the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, 
as they sometimes called him. He would delight them 
equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful 
omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which 
prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would 
frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and 
shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It 
receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those word** 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 34^ 

absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a 
ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, 
no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by 
the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fear- 
ful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and 
ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful look did 
he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the 
waste fields from some distant window ! — How often was he 
appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which like a 
sheeted spectre beset his very path ! — How often did he 
shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on 
the frosty crust beneath his feet ; and dread to look over his 
shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping 
close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into com- 
plete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, 
in the idea that it was the galloping Hessian on one of his 
nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- 
toms of the mind, that walk in darkness ; and though he had 
seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once 
beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, 
yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and he would have 
passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all 
his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that 
causes more perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, goblins, 
and the whole race of witches put together ; and that was — 
a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening 
in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was 
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substan- 
tial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eigh- 
teen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy- 
cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, 



346 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She 
was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even 
in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern 
fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the 
ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grand- 
mother had brought over from Saardam ; the tempting stom- 
acher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petti- 
coat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country 
round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a 
morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van 
Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal- 
hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes 
or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but 
within these, everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. 
He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and 
piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the 
style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the 
banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile 
nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. 
A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the 
foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest 
water, in a little well, formed of a barrel j and then stole 
sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
thai babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard 
by the farm-house was a vast barii, that might have served 
for a church ; every window and crevice of which seemed 
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was 
busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows 
of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the 
weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried 
in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof, 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON-, GENT. 34^ 

Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- 
dance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, 
troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squad- 
ron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoy- 
ing whole fleets of ducks j regiments of turkeys were gobbling 
through the farm-yard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it like 
ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. 
Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern 
of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his 
burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then 
generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and chil- 
dren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring 
mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig running 
about, with a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its mouth ; 
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and 
tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming 
in their own gravy \ and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, 
like snug married couples with a decent competency of onion 
sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek 
side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey, but he 
beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, 
and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages ; and even 
bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side 
dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his 
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the 
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, 
and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which sur- 
rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his 
imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be read- 
ily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 



348 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. 
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented 
to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children 
mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trum- 
pery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee — or the Lord knows 
where ! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, 
with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style 
handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low project- 
ing eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being 
closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, har- 
ness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in 
the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides 
for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and 
a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this 
important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the 
wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre 
of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, 
rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled 
his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to 
be spun ; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples 
and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar, gave him 
a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and 
dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors ; andirons, with 
their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their 
covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch shells 
decorated the mantelpiece ; strings of various colored birds' 
eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung 
from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly 
left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- 
mended china. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYOl^, GENT. 349 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these re- 
gions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and 
his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless 
daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he 
had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a 
knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, 
enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered ad- 
versaries, to contend with ; and had to make his way merely 
through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the 
castle-keep, where the lady of his heart was confined ; all 
which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to 
the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him 
her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, 
had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset 
with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever 
presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he had to 
encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, 
the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her 
heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, 
but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rung with his feats of strength and 
hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, 
with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant 
countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. 
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had 
received the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was uni- 
versally known. He was famed for great knowledge and 
skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a 
Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and 
with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in 
rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on 
one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that 



35© WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for 
either a fight or a frolic ; had more mischief than ill-will in 
his composition ; and with all his overbearing roughness, 
there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. 
He had three or four boon companions of his own stamp, 
who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom 
he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or 
merriment for miles around. In cold weather, he was distin- 
guished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; 
and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well- 
known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of 
hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes 
his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm-houses 
at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don 
Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would 
listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and 
then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang !" 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admi- 
ration, and good-will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and 
warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the 
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whis- 
pered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Cer- 
tain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to re- 
tire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; in- 
somuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's 
palings, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was 
courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking, "within, all other suit- 
ors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other 
quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man than 
he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 3^1 

would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture 
of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form 
and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he 
bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the 
slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! — he 
was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival, would 
have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in 
his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Icha- 
bod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insin- 
uating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-mas- 
ter, he made frequent visits at the farm-house ; not that he had 
anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of 
parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of 
lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul j he loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable 
man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every- 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to at- 
tend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry ; for, as she 
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must 
be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, 
while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her 
spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achieve- 
ments of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in 
each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pin- 
nacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on 
his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the 
great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so 
favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle 
and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, 
and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a 
great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater 



^52 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, foi 
a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. 
He that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled 
to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was 
not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the 
moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of 
the former evidently declined : his horse was no longer seen 
t led at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud grad- 
ually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled 
iheir pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those 
most concise and simple reasoners, the knights errant of yore 
— by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the 
superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him \ 
he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would " double 
the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf ; " and he was 
too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something 
extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left 
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical 
jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical 
persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They 
harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his sing- 
ing-school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school- 
house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy ; so 
that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in 
the country held their meetings there. But what was still 
more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into 
ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog 
whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and 
introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody. 
In this way, matters went on for some time, without pro* 



SKETCH-BOOK- OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, CENT. 3^3 

ducing any material effect on the relative situations of the 
contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, 
in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence 
he usually watched all the concerns of his literary realm. In 
his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; 
the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, 
a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him 
might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited wea- 
pons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as 
half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there 
had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for 
his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly 
whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; 
and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school- 
room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a 
negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round crowned frag- 
ment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the 
back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed 
with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to 
the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a 
merry-making, or " quil ting-frolic," to be held that evening at 
Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message 
with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which 
a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he 
dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the 
hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- 
out stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble, skipped over 
half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart 
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, 
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside, with- 
out being put away on the shelves ; inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose 
an hour before the usual time ; bursting forth like a legion of 
23 



354 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 

young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at 
their early enaancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-hour 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed 
only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of 
broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That 
he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true 
style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name 
of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth 
like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I 
should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account 
of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The 
animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had 
outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt 
and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his 
rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one 
eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the 
other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must 
have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his 
name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favor- 
ite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a 
furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own 
spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young 
iilly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
-with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the 
pommel of the saddle j his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers' j he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, 
like a sceptre, r<nd as the horse jogged on, the motion of his 
arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip 
of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat 
fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appear- 
ance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the 



. SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 35^ 

gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an ap- 
parition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day ; the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air ; 
the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of 
beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolick- 
ing, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the 
very profusion and variety around them. There was the 
honest cockrobin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, 
with its loud querulous note, and the twittering blackbirds 
flying in sable clouds j and the golden-wdnged woodpecker, 
with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid 
plumage ; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yeL 
low-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the 
"blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat ancj 
white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and 
bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms witli 
every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever opei 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight 
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on 
the trees ; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; and the yellow 
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair rounc^ 



356 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buck- 
wheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he be- 
held them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty 
slap-jacks, well-buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, 
by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
*' sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes 
of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad 
disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappaan Zee 
lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a 
gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of 
the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, 
without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a 
fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, 
and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the 
dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was 
loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, 
her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflec- 
tion of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if 
the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a 
spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, 
blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long- 
waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin- 
cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting 
where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, 
gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons, in short square 
skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 357 

hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if 
they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed 
throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener 
of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a crea- 
ture, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one 
but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for pre- 
ferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept 
the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable 
well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered 
the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the 
bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and 
white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country 
tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up 
platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, 
known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! There was 
the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly-koek, and the crisp and 
crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes 
and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there 
were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides 
slices of ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable dishe 5 
of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces -, not 
to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with 
bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty 
much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless 
the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his 
historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated 
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He 



358 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splen- 
dor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the 
old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itin- 
erant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him 
comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and 
jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were 
brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a 
slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation 
to " fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the 
neighborhood for more than half a century. His instru- 
ment was as old and battered as himself. The greater part 
of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, accom- 
panying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; 
bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot when- 
ever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; 
and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and 
clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus 
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before 
you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; 
who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and 
the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black 
faces at every door and window j gazing with delight at the 
scene ; rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning 
rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous .<* the lady of 
Jlis heart was his partner in thQ dance, and smiling graciously 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 359 

in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely 
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in 
one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smok- 
ing at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, 
and drawling out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
had run near it during the war j it had, therefore, been the 
scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, 
and all kind of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had 
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a 
little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recol- 
lection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an 
old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer 
to be lightly mentioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, 
being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball 
with a small-sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz 
round the blade, and glance off at the hilt ; in proof of which 
he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a 
little bent. There were several more that had been equally 
great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he 
had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats j but are trampled 
under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population of 
most of our country places, Besides, there is no encourage.- 



36o WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

meat for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely 
had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their 
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from 
the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk 
their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. 
This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts 
except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the 
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very 
air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an 
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Sev- 
eral of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tas- 
sel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful 
legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, 
and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the 
great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and 
which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made 
also ^ of the woman in white, that hunted the dark glen at 
Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights 
before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief 
part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre 
of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard 
several times of late, patrolling the country ; and it is said, 
tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on 
a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among 
which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like 
Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A 
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bor- 
dered by high trees, between which, peeps ihay be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, 
where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think 
that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side 
of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 361 

large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. 
Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, 
was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, 
and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging 
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day-time \ but 
occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the 
favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where 
he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old 
Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the 
horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and 
was obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over 
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the 
bridge ; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, 
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the 
tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping 
Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had 
been overtaken by this midnight trooper \ that he had offered 
to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it 
too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as 
they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and van- 
ished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only 
now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, 
sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind 
with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken 
place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which be had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gath- 
ered together their families in their wagons, and were heard 
for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the 
distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind 



362 WORA'S OF WASHINGTON- IRVING. 

their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, ming- 
ling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent wood- 
lands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died 
away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and 
deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the 
custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress j 
fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in 
fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very 
great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen — Oh? 
these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been playing 
off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Washer encouragement of the 
poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his 
rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to sa}^, Icha- 
bod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the 
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he 
had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with 
several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourte- 
ously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly 
sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole 
valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along 
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and 
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The 
hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan 
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even 
hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of 
the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an 
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, aC' 
cidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 



iW^^^l^^fl^l^0^PI?^m^ vf^(^^\f^iff!iKi.^iM . mi'^Mi^i^^w'mmfi^ 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFI'REY CRAYON, GENT. 363 

house away among the hills — ^but it was like a dreaming sound 
in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally 
the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural 
twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping 
uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. — The 
night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deep- 
er in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from 
his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, 
moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes 
of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road 
stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above 
all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of 
landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough 
to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the 
earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with 
the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been 
taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the 
name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded 
it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sym- 
pathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from 
the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told con- 
cerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whis- 
tle ; he thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast 
sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached 
a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging 
in the midst of the tree : he paused, and ceased whistling ; but 
on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where 
the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood 
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered, 
and his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rub- 
bing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed 
about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 



364 WORKS OF WASHINGTO^r IRVING. 

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, 
laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that 
side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of 
oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw 
a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, was the se- 
verest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate 
Andre was qaptured, and under the covert of those chestnuts 
and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised 
him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, 
and fearful are the feelings of a school-boy who has to pass it 
alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; 
be summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse 
half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
across the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the per- 
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside 
against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily 
with the contrary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it 
is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road 
into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes, 'i'he school- 
master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling 
ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sudden- 
ness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just 
at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught 
the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, 
on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gath- 
ered up in the gloom, like some gigantic i]fionster ready to 
spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now 
too late J and besides, what chance was there of escaping 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 365 

ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings 
of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he 
demanded in stammering accents — " Who are you ? " He re- 
ceived no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more 
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he 
cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting 
his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and 
v/ith a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle 
of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet 
the form of the unknown might now in some degree be 
ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimen- 
sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He 
made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on 
one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of 
old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and wayward- 
ness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
with the galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a 
walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did the same. His 
heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to resume 
his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of 
his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was some- 
thing in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious 
companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon, 
fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the 
sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was 
horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! but his 
horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, 
which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before 
him on the pommel of his saddle ! His terror rose to desper- 
ation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, 



^66 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the 
slip — but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, 
they dashed through thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks 
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered 
in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon? 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 
where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ; and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the white- 
washed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got 
half-way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, 
and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the 
pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had 
just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round 
the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it 
trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror 
of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it 
was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; 
the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that 
he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat \ sometimes 
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes 
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's backbone, with a 
violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection 
of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was 
not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but 
reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then 



;^p?flf?i*'^jj;?F*«!S^^i!'Y:^5V;'^^v! 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRA YON, GENT. 367 

he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind 
him ; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon 
the bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he 
gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind 
to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a 
flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin 
rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head 
at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, 
but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous 
crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gun- 
powder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a 
whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his sad- 
dle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the 
grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- 
ance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The 
boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly about 
the banks of the brook j but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Rip- 
per now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor 
Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and 
after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one 
part of the road leading to the church, was found the saddle 
trampled in the dirt j the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented 
in the road, and, evidently at furious speed, were traced to 
the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the 
brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat 
of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his 
worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; 
two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings j 
an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor j a book 
of psalm tunes full of dog's ears ; and a broken pitch-pipe. 



368 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they be- 
longed to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History 
of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams 
and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much 
scribbled and blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a 
copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These 
magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned 
to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who, from that time for- 
ward, determmed to send his children no more to school ; 
observing that he never knew any good come of this same 
reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster pos- 
sessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two 
before, he must have had about his person at the time of his 
disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips 
were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the 
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories 
of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called 
to mind ; and when they had diligently considered them all, 
and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, 
they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion, that 
Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As 
he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his 
head any more about him ; the school was removed to a 
different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue 
reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of 
the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intel- 
Hgence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the 
neighborhood partly through fear of the gol^lin and Hans Van 
Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly 
dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to 
a distant part of the country \ had kept school and studied law 
at the same time ; had been admitted to the bar ; turned 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 36^) 

politician j electioneered j written for the newspapers j and 
finally, had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. 
Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance, 
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of 
Ichabo(^ /as related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at 
the mention of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day, that Ichabod was spirited 
away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often 
told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. 
The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious 
awe ; and that may be the reason why the road has been al- 
tered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border 
of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, soon fell 
to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the 
unfortunate pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering home- 
ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at 
a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tran- 
quil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 
24 



^o WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words 
in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the 
ancient city of the Manhattoes,"* at which were present many 
of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was 
a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt 
clothes, with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly 
suspected of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertain- 
ing. When his story was concluded there was much laughter 
and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy alder- 
men, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There 
was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beet- 
ling eye-brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face 
throughout ; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, 
and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over 
in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh 
but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the law 
on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company 
had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on 
the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other a-kimbo, de- 
manded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, 
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, 
and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to 
his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, 

* New York. 



:^KETCir-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 371 

looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and 
lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story 
was intended most logically to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages, 
and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 

*' That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, 
is likely to have rough riding of it : 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer 
alter this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocina- 
tion of the syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper- 
and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At 
length he observed, that all this was very well, but still he 
thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were one 
or two points on which he had his doubts : 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller. " as to that matter, 
I don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D.K. 



372 



iVORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 



L'ENVOY. 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct, in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Bell Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the Au- 
thor cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with 
which his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition 
that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stran- 
ger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by oth- 
ers, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured 
race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or 
two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in 
the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation 
of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, 
that what one has particularly censured, another has as partic- 
ularly praised : and thus, the encomiums being set off against 
the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended 
far beyond its deserts. 

Pie is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally 
bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advicQ 
is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 
astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully 
determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume 
by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon 
brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. 



SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 373 

One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another, to 
shun the pathetic \ a third assured him that he was tolerable 
at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; 
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at 
turning a story, and was really entertaining when in .. pensive 
mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to 
possess a spark of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each 
in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the 
world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their 
counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a 
time sadly embarrassed j when, all at once, the thought struck 
him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being mis- 
cellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not be 
expected that anyone would be pleased with the whole \ but 
that if it should contain something to suit each reader, his 
end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to 
a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One 
has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a 
curry or a devil in utter abomination • a third cannot tolerate 
the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl ; and a fourth, 
of truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt 
on those knicknacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. 
Thus each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst 
this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the 
table without being tasted and relished by some one or other 
of the guests. 

With these considerations he venturss to serve up this 
second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; 
simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there 
something to please him, to rest assured that it was written 
expressly for intelligent readers like himself ; but entreating 
him, should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one 
of those articles which the Author has been obliged to write 
for readers a of a less refined tste. 

To be serious.— The Author is conscious of the numer- 



374 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. \ 

ous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware-j 
how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of I 
authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffi- 
dence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds himself; 
writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public 
which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard 
with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of 
solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that veryi 
solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and depriving 
jiim of that ease andconfidence which are necessary to success- 
ful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated en- 
courages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire 
a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half-venturing, half 
shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering 
at his own temerity. 







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